Finding a Voice
by Blaine's Red Pants
Summary: After all that Sam's been through over the course of one summer, his voice just won't come anymore. Rachel Berry just might be the only girl who can change that.
1. Let It Be

Finding a Voice

1: Let It Be

Sam Evans stopped in his tracks on his way out of school, staring at the reflection of himself in the office windows. He wasn't sure if the fact that he didn't know what to think of himself meant that he was getting better or worse, but after what he had endured all summer, he hoped it was better. Being forced to address your problems was a lot more difficult than acting like they didn't matter, after all.

The flyer stuck to one of those windows didn't really help, either. "Join McKinley's GSA Today!" it screamed in bright, rainbow-colored letters. Another thing reminding Sam of the many truths about himself that he'd have to come to terms with. Was there a reason why the summer before senior year always seemed to be the hardest? He wasn't the only one in glee club who had changed. Quinn, for example, had dyed her hair pink and was now strutting around, a cigarette constantly between her teeth, and calling herself a skank as if it were a compliment. But that wasn't at all the way Sam had changed.

Sam had changed – maybe – for the better. He'd stopped caring so much what people thought, yes, and started following his heart. But it was hard to accept the reality that he was a new person now. He was still the same awkward, nerdy-ish unnatural blond he'd always been, just with a new twist that made him feel not at all like this was true. He didn't _feel _like the same guy.

Sam stared into the reflection of his own gray-green eyes, muted by the slight blue tinge of the glass. He really did look pathetic, all wistful and longing, like he wished things could just go back to normal. As if moving into a motel last year wasn't enough, fate had just had to give him one of those meaningful summers of self-realization - one of those meaningful summers he'd never speak of again unless he had to. None of it was his fault, of course. He could always blame it all on the doctors…the dozens and dozens of doctors, all rediagnosing him with the same thing.

That was when Sam stopped thinking that only girls could get eating disorders – when it was real, and happening to him. The rehab and the counseling and the therapy that forced him to talk about the things he'd always forced into the back of his mind. That sort of experience would be enough to change anybody. And as if it hadn't been enough, he'd just had to go and fall in love…and then get his heart broken.

Well, it certainly wouldn't be the first time.

At the beginning of the list was Quinn, the beautiful blond cheerleader he'd noticed on his first day at McKinley. He didn't really talk to her until after he'd joined glee club, and gotten hit in the face with his slushie – his first, and certainly not his last. He remembered agreeing when she said that blueberry was always the worst. The cherry one he'd gotten sure wasn't a picnic, but more followed, and the blueberries were definitely his least favorite.

He'd really liked her, Sam remembered with a sigh. But then, she'd gone and cheated on him with Finn, and that was the end of it. And so came the next girl on the list of Sam's Ghosts of Girlfriends' Past: Santana Lopez.

Dating Santana hadn't been a walk in the park – oh, God no. She'd been pushy, and pressuring, and overwhelmingly bitchy. When they weren't making out, she was trying to change him. She was the type of girl who would rip apart a guy's piece and not really care how hurt he was after. But it hadn't been that hard for him to figure out that she was a gal's girl, after seeing her and Brittany, and that was when he called it off.

Sam sighed again. He should have noticed his own signs rather than worrying about Santana's. The fact that he could figure out that she was a lesbian and he was just her big, gay beard should have been enough to warn him. But, of course, it wasn't.

Nothing was ever enough, was it? There was always something to be proven with time.

And, of course, the third and final on his extremely short list: Mercedes Jones. Mercedes was, without a doubt, the best of all the girls on that list. She was sweet, unlike either of his previous girlfriends, and actually cared about him. He hadn't just been her plaything or a cover-up for a truth that was too hard to address. They'd really liked each other. That was, until he screwed it up by lying.

He'd told her his dad was getting a new job, that they were moving away and that was why she wouldn't see him all summer. Not at all the truth, though he honestly wished it was. But when he caught the dangerous look in her eye when she watched him walk into school on the first day of their senior year, he knew he was screwed.

"_Sam, I thought you were moving," Mercedes said bluntly, glaring at him as if warning him that whatever he was about to try, he wouldn't get away with. He should have listened to the warning._

_Sam shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant. "False alarm, I guess. We got a call saying they found a better guy for the job," he explained…once again, a complete lie. He was getting used to this lying thing, even if he wasn't very good at it. Not to mention that he hated it, too._

_Mercedes just rolled her eyes. "Yeah, right. Tell me where you really were all summer," she said, and Sam opened his mouth to reply. Nothing came out. "I thought so," Mercedes snapped, turning on her heel and walking away. _

_But, before disappearing, she gave him one last look over her shoulder, a soft look that made her seem less tough. Like she had been the one getting dumped, not the other way around. Like she had been the one who lied and was getting told off for it. She looked vulnerable, and that was when the guilt of what he had done really started to sink in. _

_But no way could he ever risk telling her the truth. _

Sam knew he'd screwed up that relationship more than either of the other two, but there was nothing he could do about it now. As his therapist had said, you just had to take three steps and get over it. _Step one, take in the memory and remember how you felt. Step two, accept your feelings as being natural and allowed rather than a bad thing. Emotions are perfectly normal. Step three, just take a deep breath and let it all go._

Yeah, he wished it was that simple.


	2. Undercover

Finding a Voice

2: Undercover

"Sam!"

Hearing his name, Sam turned around to notice Rachel Berry bounding down the hall in his direction. A bubbly grin was glued to her face as usual, and she had a stack of flyers in her hand. A few escaped from her grip as she ran across the hallway to meet him, and Sam caught a glimpse of the familiar rainbow lettering on the poster from the day before and grit his teeth.

Rachel skidded to a stop in front of him, her cheeks slightly pink from the exercise, and said cheerfully, "Where were you all summer?" She was trying to get it across that she missed him, although she wasn't close enough to him to want to flat-out announce that fact.

Sam couldn't help but break into as much of a smile as his conflicting emotions would let him. He shrugged before answering her question with his typical lie, "Busy. Babysitting and gaming marathons, stuff like that." It sounded enough like what he would be doing over vacation to pass for the truth, which was why he usually stuck to it. He could hardly keep track of his cover story as-is, so he tried to keep his lies as simple as he could.

He didn't feel like having to elaborate, so he returned the question. Rachel, too, shrugged and said, "Oh, I helped out at my cousin's acting camp all summer. She seemed to enjoy herself." Sam raised an eyebrow and questioned, "Did you?" Rachel thought for a moment before saying, "It was an...interesting experience, thank you for asking."

"So it sucked," he said bluntly, and Rachel laughed before agreeing, "Pretty much." Her eyes drifted around the hallway a bit, as if she was unsure how to continue the conversation. The bell interrupted her thoughts just in time.

"I suppose that means we've got to go our separate ways now," she declared, and Sam shrugged one shoulder before saying, "I guess so."

"Well, I'll see you in glee club later!" she called before waving goodbye and drifting in the opposite direction.

Sam turned to watch as Rachel walked away, a bounce still in her step. His eyes followed her all the way until she stopped to pick up the flyers she had dropped in the middle of the hallway.

That was when he forced himself to turn away, a lump in his throat.

* * *

><p>Glee club was just about the last place Sam wanted to be after school.<p>

It wasn't that he didn't like it, or cared that it labeled him as a geek just for being a part of it - football made up for that, a sort of renewing quality. Or, at least, it had last year. This year, his mom had wanted him to quit sports, saying that he needed the time to focus on himself. That meant football, ice hockey, and spring soccer, along with pretty much anything else that would redeem his loser reputation.

For some odd reason, she hadn't mentioned a thing about glee club.

Sam wished she had, because he hardly ever wanted to speak anymore, let alone sing. His lies were his longest sentences these days, and he felt like those weren't even coming from him. It was like someone had put the words inside his mouth for him.

He didn't want his singing to turn into a lie - music had always been his outlet, the one way he was comfortable expressing himself (unless you counted Na'vi, which he only felt comfortable using because no one else understood him when he did) - so he just didn't. He'd stopped wanting to sing and just started lip synching and blending into the background, not that he'd ever really stood out anyways. Eventually it had just gotten to the point where nothing would come out when he tried to sing anyways.

He'd lost his voice. That might have been for the better, seeing as it meant no one would know what he'd gone through. The lies would be easier this way, without coming across in his singing. His singing had always been too genuine to lie through; that was what his mom spent the whole summer telling him. It was why he'd given it up, as a sort of self-sacrifice to save face if the truth ever got out.

After all, if anyone ever found out what he'd been through, he wouldn't want anyone to know he was hurt. That would ruin the 'Superman illusion,' to put it in his counselor's words. It was the act guys put on to seem like they were tough, unbreakable.

Sam knew for a fact he wasn't unbreakable, but he didn't want anyone else to find out.

The blond snapped out of his thoughts, called to attention as a stack of lyrics landed in his lap. "Pass them down," Santana said harshly, and he passed the whole pile to his left without taking one.

Rachel, who was next to him, turned and said with a smile, "You forgot to take one first." _Damn_, he thought. _Busted._ Trying to offer up an equally-enthusiastic smile - although it ended up looking more like a grimace - he took the sheet she offered him before going back to his usual activity of staring at his toes.

Sam caught the first line of lyrics and instantly knew what song this was: 'Follow Through' by Gavin DeGraw. A pang of guilt stabbed at his chest, mostly at the fact that he knew the song by heart and yet still wouldn't be putting in the proper effort. But, hey, what else was new? He'd never been as good as everyone else anyways; they weren't missing out on much. If anything, his section sounded better without him in it.

"Okay, guys; we're going to run through this once and then I want you to take the lyrics home and practice," Mr. Shuester said, clasping his hands and rubbing them together eagerly. He signaled Brad, who was their pianist when the jazz band wasn't around, and the music started up. It was kind of peppy, a little too peppy for Sam's tastes, but he was probably just being picky because he knew the original song too well to think their version would be just as good. He knew they could never measure up.

Finn was put on male lead, and Sam tuned out as always, lip-synching his part like usual. He, Puck, and Kurt sang with the girls while the deeper boys sang together. For a moment, he thought of how easy it would have been to let the sounds come out - it was just a mixture of the "da"s that Mr. Shue seemed to be so fond of - but he knew that he couldn't even if he'd tried. It wasn't a matter of did he want to or not so much as a matter of could he or would it break him, for good this time.

Lost in his own thoughts, Sam realized his lips had been moving a whole lyric behind when Mr. Shuester threw up a hand and shouted, "Stop! Everyone stop!" He gave Sam one look before saying, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion, "Sam, what was that?"

Sam tried to play innocent, furrowing his brow and saying, "Sorry?" There was a bit of a quiver in his voice as the guilt got to him, but he swallowed and pushed the emotions into the back of his throat.

Mr. Shuester sighed, pressing his hand to his forehead for a moment before turning to the whole group. Sam averted his eyes, biting his lip and crossing his arms defensively. He knew that if he looked into one of their gazes, he'd get that feeling like he always did in these times, when his lies finally came back to bite him in the butt: like he was doing the wrong thing by hiding this, like he needed help. Those were the times when he was tempted to break down, but Sam knew he could never do that. Not if he still wanted everyone to think he was perfect, the guy with no problems, the guy they could count on when they were upset. Not the guy they could count on to come running to them with his issues.

"Guys, we can't afford to be lazy anymore! Every minute we spend slacking off, Vocal Adrenaline is getting stronger, because they know how to put their problems aside and just give everything up to the performing," Mr. Shuester said, and Sam could feel a lecture coming on; he was sure the whole group could. A heavy tension hung in the air as he continued, "We can't just not put in the effort because we're tired or feel like we can't do something; we have to push through it. If we don't, we'll never place at Nationals, and then what will we have to show for ourselves?"

Sam almost laughed, because Mr. Shuester was the one always trying to hammer it into their heads how special they all were. He was always trying to tell them that if they lost or fell apart, they'd have something apart from the music. They weren't just all about talent; they were unique and different and no matter how bad things seemed, they were going to get better. There was always something to show for yourself without the music.

Sam was smart enough now to know better.

"Rachel." Mr. Shuester snapped his fingers and pointed at her. "I want you to tutor Sam after school - I don't care what it is, I don't care what the excuse was, I want him hitting those notes and I want to be able to hear him louder than the rest of you. And Sam, the next time I see you open your mouth without something coming out of it, you're off this team. We can't have anyone weakening us; we can't fall apart under pressure again. Understood?"

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it. He clamped his mouth shut, chewing on the inside of his cheek, and nodded.


	3. We'll Be a Dream

Finding a Voice

3: We'll Be a Dream

Rachel sucked in a deep breath and lept from her seat, striding across the room to hit the pause button on her pink, jewel-encrusted radio.

"I think it might be time for a break," she said calmly, trying to contain her own frustrations, but more worried about Sam's obvious frustration with himself. He leaned his head back, landing against the wall with a thunk, and closed his eyes. Everything he saw, he felt like kicking as hard as he could, so he just refused to look.

It wasn't that he was embarrassed, but knowing that someone – a girl, nonetheless – had heard his pathetic attempt at croaking out a few notes was still mortifying either way. It was more aggravating than anything, though. He felt this same frustration every night at home, when Stacy asked him to sing her to sleep. She always had trouble falling asleep these days – she was only seven and living in the motel was harder on her than anyone else in his family – and Sam always beat himself up over the fact that he wished he could help her.

But without his voice, there wasn't anything he could do about it. Every night he waited until she fell asleep, hoping that it would come back, and tried to hit a few notes, but in all honesty, he sounded like a dying duck. Those were his private struggles, things he didn't talk about with anybody. But now, Rachel had witnessed it, and that made him feel like banging his head against a wall more than ever.

"Do you, um, want to talk about it?" Rachel asked. Sam opened his eyes and blinked at her, the picture of innocence. It was harder than it seemed to act like nothing was wrong, but if she had known he was lying, she would have pitied how easily the lies came out. "I can't," he said, reaching up to awkwardly scratch the back of his neck. He averted his eyes and glared down at the small pile of stuffed animals at the foot of Rachel's bed. Sam couldn't stand himself just for letting those two words come out of his mouth, not wanting to admit it to himself that he couldn't, but he knew it was the truth. He knew that what Mr. Shue was asking Rachel to accomplish with him was an impossible feat – his voice was gone.

"Oh, well…all right," she said, smoothing out her skirt as she sat on the edge of her bed. She folded her hands daintily in her lap and added, "For what it's worth, I believe that you're trying. I just…I don't know what I can do."

Sam lifted his head and rubbed his eyes. "Like I said, I can't," he replied bluntly. "Is it the notes, or-" Rachel began, but he abruptly interrupted, "I can't." _I can't, I can't, I can't_, he thought sourly, hating those words more than anything else in the world.

"You…can't?" Rachel repeated, playing around with the pom-poms on her socks. She wasn't sure what he meant by that, but she could tell this was hurting him. She just didn't want to get in trouble for being accused of not doing her job properly. Right now, she was Mr. Shuester's golden student and, although she wasn't sure exactly what that meant to her, she knew it was something she held above all her peers' heads and that she should at least try to value it.

Yet again, there was always that one back-up plan of hers, the one that part of her was fighting to let take over the rest of her, knowing that this dream was less ambitious than her others and would be easier to accomplish. But she was destined to be on Broadway; she wasn't supposed to be worrying about a Plan B. She had NYADA and a role onstage practically in the bag.

But she still needed a test subject for this lesser-known dream of hers…

"Sam?" Rachel asked, looking up from her mary janes and searching Sam's face for any sign of emotion or weakness. He still looked slightly hurt, but she wasn't sure how to react to that. It was always so hard with (straight) boys – with Mercedes and Kurt, she felt like she could look into their eyes and feel like she knew the whole stories. It was a different feeling to know that she didn't have this advantage for her guy friends, too.

Sam shot a glance over at her and dared to look into her eyes for a moment, trying to be cautious about the whole matter. She had deep, chocolate brown eyes that sparkled when she laughed and got suddenly darker when she was worried; it was the first thing Sam had noticed about Rachel when they had first met. It was hard not to be captivated by them, but Sam tried not to notice those types of things about girls anymore. The last thing he needed on his mind was a girlfriend, after all.

But a girl like Rachel, someone who seemed to care, could be just what he needed. Not that he could risk getting close to anybody anyways.

Rachel didn't wait for a response; she just knew that she was starting to get uncomfortable staring at Sam like that. His gray-green eyes had too much hurt in them to look into for too long without feeling something, and Rachel was starting to catch onto all the pain. They were almost…harrowing. She forced herself to look away, wondering what could give a guy a look like that. It was like a lost puppy, an orphan who'd lost everything he had and didn't have anything left to lean on. Like his dreams had been shattered way too many times for his own good.

"I, um," she stammered, getting a little red in the face as she tried to recollect herself. "I have a proposition to make." Sam gave her a look and raised one eyebrow, wary of being roped into getting closer to her but still fighting a potentially dangerous curiosity to learn more about her. "Yeah?" he questioned, and Rachel nodded and repeated him: "Yeah."

She didn't wait for her cue to go on before saying, "I'm taking a journalism class this year, just in case my Broadway exploits don't work out, and I need a subject for an exposé I'm supposed to have written by the end of next trimester. I was thinking…I don't know how to help you with your singing, but we still want Mr. Shuester to think I'm able, right? So, this would be an excuse to meet after school and, um, keep up the illusion. It's a win-win. No one gets in trouble."

Sam's breath caught in his lungs for a moment before he blew out a long stream of air. He was unsure of how he felt about his secrets being exposed to the whole school. Of course, he could always lie – what did he have to lose at this point anyways? He was probably going to hell already anyways – but he wouldn't want to risk Rachel's grade for ingenuity that had nothing to do with her. "I, um, don't know if I can…if I have time…I mean, I've got football practice and I, I've got to get a scholarship this year…I just don't…I don't-"

Rachel cut him off and said, slightly ashamed, "I know. I'm sorry I bothered you; I know I can make people kind of uncomfortable sometimes. I just get a little over-eager when something – or someone – takes interest in me. If anyone's willing to even try to be my friend, I jump all over them. I'm just not used to having people take chances on me, I guess…" She trailed off, ducking her head low and biting back the tears that she hoped more than anything wouldn't fall. She'd spent her entire seven years of middle school and high school combined hoping for someone to try and get closer to her, to finally make a friend who wouldn't just use her for her intelligence or the fact that she was one of the few kids who actually had talent and didn't just put it to waste with too many trips to the movies or too many hours rotting away in front of a video game console. Now she had Kurt and Mercedes to fill that empty hole in her heart, but she still couldn't shake the old habit of clinging to whoever was willing to give her so much as the time of day.

"Rachel, I…" Sam tried to explain himself in a way that wouldn't betray his entire charade, but couldn't find the right words. There was no way without telling the truth, so he just clamped his mouth shut. If one person knew the truth, so would the whole school. He couldn't risk his entire social life just for that, no matter how much he wanted to open his mouth and let it all come out…it wasn't that simple. He couldn't give himself away like that. High school was a jungle and he'd be at the bottom of the food chain.

He sighed and gave up. Letting Rachel down would hurt too much, and he couldn't afford any more hurt in his life. "I guess I can help with your project," Sam answered, and Rachel broke into a huge grin. She jumped out of her seat and bounced up and down, clapping her hands together in excitement.

"Yay!" she exclaimed, mad giggles breaking through. Sam couldn't help but smile, watching as she attempted to recollect herself. When she finally calmed down, she smoothed a hand over her hair and sat back down on her bed. Sam debated with himself for a moment before taking a chance and walking over to sit next to her, being sure to keep his distance.

Tugging at the bottom of her skirt and the end of her sweater, Rachel blurted, "You know, he didn't mean it." Sam looked up from his clasped hands and tapping foot to stare at her, furrowing his brow in confusion. "Mr. Shuester didn't mean to snap at you – he hardly ever means to snap at anybody – but he's right, you know…we can't afford to lose Nationals again. I think he's just afraid this could mean the end of the glee club for us if we can't pull ourselves together," she tried to explain. Sam just looked away and ground his teeth together. He knew whatever he had to say would probably offend her, so he just kept his mouth shut. He'd already said too much already tonight anyways.

Rachel looked over at him expectantly, and when Sam noticed this, he shrugged and bit his lip. "I think you're talented, Sam," she said, breaking the small moment of silence between them, "and I think you could use a friend."


	4. Heartless

Finding a Voice

4: Heartless

_(Author's Note: I'm sorry I haven't been updating as quickly as I used to be! I got kind of busy, but don't worry; I'll still be continuing the story, even if it sometimes takes a little while.)_

The cafeteria was anything but silent, what with all the giggles and gossip that come along with your typical high school feeding grounds, but the only thing Sam could hear was the pounding in his ears as he stared down at the pizza he'd just bought and cut into eight tiny little pieces.

Every meal was like this nowadays - a constant battle between guilt and his chiseled abs, his psychiatrist's advice and the nagging feeling in his gut – and he couldn't just put the thoughts away and practically swallow his meals whole like he did as a freshman. Ever since dumping Quinn last year, he'd had this weird feeling like he had to eat better, had to look better, had to _be_ better to deserve all the popularity and attention, and, most of all, to win her back after letting her go. Every week, his intake had been limited more and more, starting with carbs and ending with practically starving himself.

He knew it wasn't normal to cut out so much food, to be a teenage guy and not feel like he wanted to swallow everything he saw. When he wasn't eating, it had scared him, but never enough to let someone inside his head. Not until prom night, where he'd come home and fainted. His mom found him nearly unconscious at the foot of the bed, and that was when he'd been subjected to the doctors, the tests, the psychological exams, and – what it all came down to – the rehab.

Sam sighed as he cautiously picked up one of the eight pieces of his pizza slice and nibbled a crumb or two off the corner. He started to wrap up the other seven bites, knowing that the guilt of not eating when he knew he was supposed to be looking out for himself would get to him later, and continued to take tiny bites off the corner of the one eighth he permitted himself to eat. Then he got up and watched with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as his wrapped-up, wasted lunch fell to the bottom of the trash can.

He slowly waddled back towards the table he normally sat at, a curtain of blond hair shielding the confusion in his eyes from the rest of the world, only to have a cloud of cigarette smoke blown into his face. Sam peered up from under his bangs to see a lanky figure with bubblegum pink hair just barely turning blond at the roots, scantily clad in all-black, leaning up against the brick wall beside his table, puffing away on a cigarette and trying to look cool as she fiddled with the small silver ring jabbed into her nose.

"Quinn, if you don't mind, I really don't feel like getting lung cancer today," Sam muttered, coughing into his sleeve and glaring over at her exposed belly-button. He was only being nasty because he hated what Quinn had done to herself even more than what he had done to himself after dating her – more specifically, after losing her.

Quinn shot Sam a sideways glance, her eyes burning with a combination of near hatred and a glimmer of the same lust she used to feel for him as a junior, and retorted, "Oh, Sam – you're back. I see you seem to have grown a pair over the summer." She blew a ring of smoke towards him, holding her cigarette between two fingers like the Skanks had shown her, and just listened, almost satisfied with his dry cough.

"Yeah, well," he started, his voice a little hoarse as he cleared his throat. "You've gotta be tough if you're going to make it through one of those clinics alive." Sam only felt comfortable mentioning this because he knew his mom was close to Judy Fabray, and that there was no possible way that Quinn didn't already know his secret. He didn't know why, but he trusted that she hadn't told anyone.

For a moment, Quinn just looked at him, clenching her jaw with the same stone-cold expression etched on her face. Then she looked back down at her toes, thinking about her older sister. Remembering what had happened to her – to their whole household – when she went through the same things that Sam had gone through. Still, she couldn't find it in herself to feel sympathy for him. That was just what he was loooking for, she thought - a pity march following him around wherever he went.

Quinn dropped her cigarette and ground it into the concrete of the courtyard with the toe of her combat boot. "Right. That. I forgot you have a bunch of skeleton-thin freaks to thank for your newfound man parts," she said icily, averting her eyes and folding her arms across her chest. She couldn't bear to look at him; he had the same frightened expression in his eyes as a lost dog whenever she commented on what had happened that summer. The guilt would eat her alive if she looked.

"It's kinda your fault. I felt like I had to keep up," Sam pointed out, thinking back to when it had all started. He'd just wanted to put on some muscle, telling everyone it was for football when it was really something he did for Quinn. Their relationship hadn't been the best for him, and they'd certainly had their share of problems, but in the end, he'd really loved her. He'd still loved her even after he called it off. There were just supposedly 'bigger' problems to attend to then, like his plummeting reputation.

"Which led to the calorie counts, the dieting, and the obsessive working out…" Quinn narrated. "Look, blondie; I know the story. I was there for you, remember? I was the one who told you you needed help. I saw Frannie go through it myself; I know how the story goes. And you obviously still need some help, seeing as I just watched you throw out your whole lunch without doing much more than stabbing your pizza with a knife."

Sam shrugged one shoulder and said meekly, "It's school food. You wouldn't want to eat it either."

That set something off inside Quinn, cut some sort of wire or pushed a button that was normally off-limits. "God, Sam – just shut up, okay? Shut up! Accept your problem and move on. I did that," she snapped.

She just couldn't stand his excuses, excuses, excuses – maybe because she was worried about him, and didn't want him to end up in the hospital, or worse: dead. The doctor had made Quinn's whole family very aware of the consequences when her older sister was diagnosed with anorexia, and Sam could lose his life if he didn't figure this thing out. She just didn't want to see his whole life crumble, but no way was she going to lose the act and admit that that was why she was flipping out on him.

Sam ground his teeth together, not knowing how to react at first. He didn't want to cause more problems, yet he felt the need to defend himself. He knew he had a problem and he knew Quinn was very well aware of that…but she had no idea how hard every day after coming home from that clinic had been for him. He'd luckily been cleared for release, but he still couldn't help but think that he wasn't one hundred percent okay yet. All the internal struggling was just too much for him sometimes. Quinn acted like she knew that, but she didn't .What did she know about anything? She was just a wannabe punk wanting to find a new image. She obviously thought that somehow related her to him, but it didn't. Their issues were completely different.

"Yeah, look where it got you," Sam hissed. "You could probably use some help, too…how many antidepressants has Doctor Curtis got you on now?" Sam and Quinn went to the same doctor, thanks to Judy – his mother was willing to take any reccommendation from her only good friend in Lima, and unfortunately, that meant a lot of time with Quinn. At least with her new smoking habits he had the excuse of it – literally – being bad for his health. Not that it hadn't been pretty bad before.

"And how many weight-loss pills did you try to get him to let you pop before _I _realized there was something wrong with you?" Quinn snapped, biting back a tear or two. Crying would certainly ruin the whole 'bad-girl' thing, and that was the last thing she needed. Her image was the only thing she had anymore. Beth was gone; there was nothing else to live for. This acting exercise was the only way she managed to get through it.

But she couldn't help but want to cry, even if it would completely ruin her eyeliner and make her look like a complete princess. She understood how hard it was to have to be constantly fighting with herself, and she wanted – no, needed – Sam to understand that. There was no one else she could talk to, because she didn't have any friends anymore. A couple months ago, she might have considered Rachel, but she was pretty sure the little Jewish elf hated her guts now.

Sam took a deep breath and looked away for a moment, then said as calmly as he could, "Look, I get it. I can't really talk about issues. But I'm not the only one who needs to grow a pair before I screw up my whole future." He took a step towards Quinn, then cautiously stepped back. He didn't want to end up being accused of making a move on her…not to mention punched in the face.

"If you have anything to say about me, say it now; I'm listening!" Quinn shouted, her emotions getting the best of her. She bit her lip again and hastily wiped away a tear, smudging her heavy eyeliner even further.

"Okay, well…" Sam began, "for one, smoking kills. And two…dying your hair and pretending to be someone you're not isn't going to solve all your problems. I learned that the hard way." He swallowed before feeling a magnetic pull in the opposite direction and feeling like it would be best to walk away.

He started to stomp off in the opposite direction, maybe find Rachel and ask some questions about the project to maybe calm his nerves, when Quinn shouted, "Hey, Evans!"

Sam stopped in his tracks and calmly wheeled around to face her. Quinn was completely recomposed, her face monotonously hard and stoic again. "What?" Sam asked, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

Quinn took a long, shaky breath before trying to force her usual confidence: "When you know what you're talking about, get back to me….because I'll tell you something: you don't know shit about me."

Slightly shaken by Quinn's sudden outburst of emotions and even quicker recomposure, he turned around and walked away, thoughts racing as he tried to figure out what to make of this encounter.


	5. She's Killing Me

Finding a Voice

5: She's Killing Me

"Okay, so for this project, I really need to get a feel for who you are as a person. You know, because it's all about getting behind the masks of real people," Rachel explained, lying on her stomach with her fuzzy purple notebook open in front of her chest. Sam was leaning up against the headboard of her bed, trying not to feel awkward about the whole situation. But he'd never been alone with a girl before…although being alone with a guy had to be the same thing.

Not that this was anything like that experience at all. Rachel was just his friend, a friend he was doing a favor for. Nothing more.

It was dangerous to get too close to people, so it wasn't hard to completely shut off his emotions sometimes. Other times, however, he couldn't shut off the waterworks. Sometimes he'd tell his mom he was going to take a shower and just let the water run to cover up the sound of him breaking down.

Sam didn't know how people could get so misguided and screwed up so early in life – he knew life was never easy, but he didn't think the most difficult moment would come before his midlife crisis – but he supposed he was living it now. The eating disorder, that stupid fling with that boy Trace…he didn't really know who he was anymore. He was just…lost. That was okay in some ways, since he still had the entirety of his senior year to find himself again, but other times, he didn't know how to feel about it.

Sam just really wished the day where he'd be able to look in the mirror and know exactly what he was seeing would come sooner.

But of course not. All he saw when he looked in the mirror were the couple extra pounds he needed to drop or the Doritos he needed to lay off of or the eyes of the guy who'd done something completely forbidden by his parents.

Sam grew up thinking his parents were nice, tolerant people. They were definitely nice. He'd gone through a lot and they'd only wanted help for him, never been the type who were pretending he didn't exist behind his back or wishing they could just disown him and stick him in a boys' home. But tolerant…well, he wasn't sure. His parents were old-world Christian, the type with strong opinions about lesbians and gays and bis.

It wasn't safe to be different in his house. That had probably just contributed along with all the other pressures to put him in this situation in the first place.

Sam just really wished he could erase time and rewind the clock. Maybe if he had a chance to start over, he'd start over right.

_You know, whenever they stop banning human cloning, _he thought, _I'm cloning myself and giving the kid to hippies. 'Cause, you know, they'd love me no matter what. 'Make love, not war,' and all that stuff._

He snapped back into reality as Rachel finished her long speech about the project: "And, last of all, I just really want to drive a wedge into stereotypes and be able to just rip off that costume! I don't want to have to hide anymore and I don't want anyone else to have to hide, either. I think we should be able to spread this message with this article I'm writing."

She had the most determined smile on her face, and just seeing how enlightened she was by the whole idea of it made him grin. But part of him was doubtful.

"No offense, but what would a girl like you know about 'hiding'?" Sam asked slowly, raising an eyebrow at her and trying not to look too apprehensive.

Rachel bit her lip. What did she know about hiding?

She thought back to something Quinn had said to her their freshman year:

"_Listen, little Miss Goodie-Goodie Knee Socks – if you want to fit in here, you've come to the right place, but unfortunately for you, girls like you don't belong on the Cheerios. So just screw off and come back when you're a little more educated."_

Rachel had been a cheerleader since she was eight. Freshman year had ended that. Quinn Fabray had stolen the spotlight and she just hadn't been good enough for Coach Sylvester. Quinn had been made captain – for the first time in McKinley High history, a freshman as captain of the Cheerios! – and Rachel had been given the "screw off" speech both times she'd tried to try out.

And then there was acting. Rachel always had to be Miss Broadway Diva with a smile on her face, but that was tough when she felt like there was so much wrong with her life. Nobody liked her. Kurt only trusted her because they'd made an alliance simply because they figured it would be good for the whole glee club. Blaine only trusted her because Kurt did. Sam only trusted her because…well, why did he trust her?

"Well, what do YOU know about hiding?" Rachel said, distractedly tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "That's what this is about, after all. I'm supposed to be interviewing you."

Sam bit his lip. "I keep a lot of secrets. Gossip spreads like wildfire around these parts," he admitted hesitantly, flipping his bangs out of his eyes. "Which was why I didn't tell anybody when my dad first lost his job." Or after being admitted into rehab for treatment for _anorexia nervosa _and BDD. Or after having a fling with a bulemic guy at the treatment center…a gay fling. Or bisexual. A bi-fling.

After all, there was no way he could be gay with the crazy mixture of curiosity and attraction he felt towards Rachel. She seemed like him in the sense that she seemed like she wasn't who she pretended to be. But nobody was who they pretended to be, were they?

So why did he care so much about who Rachel was pretending to be?

It was practically killing him.


	6. Tears Don't Fall

Finding a Voice

6: Tears Don't Fall

_Author's Note: Thanks for all the sweet reviews, everyone! It always puts a smile on my face reading them and seeing that people like the story. To answer a question I've gotten, the outcome I'm looking for with this story is Fabrevans/Faberry friendship and Samchel romance… I know things seem a little unclear right now, but I'm trying to write as much as I can, so thanks for being patient with me while I try to get this story to go where I want it to (:_

Rachel Berry laid back against her bed, reading over the notes she'd taken after Sam had left. She was thoroughly disappointed. For some reason, she'd expected to get a lot more out of him than she actually had. Sam was so cryptic, though; asking him so many questions and not getting anything back was almost painful. Did he just not trust her, or was she doing something wrong? Sometimes she worried that she was a little too nosy. But journalism was supposed to be intrusive, wasn't it? This whole project was about getting into the Sam Evans that no one else knew.

Rachel sighed exasperatedly and muttered under her breath, to no one in particular, "How am I supposed to find out who the real Sam is when he refuses to show me?"

She supposed she shouldn't be talking. The real Rachel hardly ever got any screen time in her life, after all. But the real Rachel Berry wasn't the girl who could get into NYADA and land on Broadway. She was the girl who liked writing and cheerleading and always wanted a mother. She had no place in Rachel's life.

After all, Rachel would have to claw her way to the top if she wanted to follow her acting dreams, and there was no way that the real Rachel Berry would ever be able to handle it. Show business was a tough world, and she definitely knew that. It was why everything she did seemed so dramatic; she had always been preparing herself. Real Rachel didn't know how to deal with being cut down only so she could climb back up and get shot down again. She was too sensitive.

That was why real Rachel didn't belong in the life that Rachel Berry had always pretended to want for herself. Real Rachel had talent, but she got hurt too easily. This new Rachel, the one she had discovered after getting rejected by the Cheerios, pretended to be hurt by foolish things to cover up for the things that were really hurting her. It was a smart plan, really. It got her attention and prepared her for having the paparazzi follow her wherever she went. She would be ready to give up everything and practically live and breathe show business.

She would be ready, even if it wasn't what she really wanted. Real Rachel hated the spotlight, unless she was at the top of the pyramid.

Real Rachel was also best friends with Quinn Fabray. The real Quinn Fabray; not the one that had mysteriously disappeared their freshman year when she had started dating Finn. That Quinn, like real Rachel, had no place in her life. But real Quinn was someone that Rachel missed very much, on the inside. She could never admit that to anyone else, seeing as she was supposed to hate Quinn. A good actress could never just live and let go; it would be more dramatic if she held a grudge. More practice for the angry scenes, even if in real life, she just didn't have the fire to be mad anymore.

That was how it was with Quinn. Seeing Quinn go punk and dye her hair and start hacking up lung all the time was more painful now than it was angering. Real Rachel thought so, anyways. The girl Rachel pretended to be was supposed to hate Quinn even more now – because she'd had everything, and now she was throwing it away.

That Rachel wasn't supposed to feel sympathy for her for losing Beth. Real Rachel might have known what it was like to lose something, but Rachel Barbra Berry, NYADA hopeful and future Broadway star, knew nothing of such things.

She only knew how it felt to be in the spotlight and have all eyes on her as she sang her heart out. Both Rachels liked that feeling, the feeling of belting out show tunes and having the world suddenly seem a million times better. But real Rachel preferred the feeling when no one was watching.

Rachel Berry, however, had to keep performing no matter what. She couldn't disappoint Shelby. It was the only way her mother was ever going to notice her, the one thing she wanted more than anything.

A mom. The one thing Rachel had never had and always wanted, no matter what kind of personality transplant she'd gone through or how she was feeling that day. Happy or sad, quiet or bitchy, Rachel just wanted someone to look up to and to sing her to sleep at night and to take her dress shopping when she finally got married someday. There was only so much that two gay dads could do for her, and Rachel knew they tried their best, but they could never, ever replace the empty hole of wishing she had a mother.

Rachel reached up to wipe away a stray tear that had fallen and glanced down at her loopy cursive:

"RACHEL: Well, what do YOU know about hiding?

SAM: "I keep a lot of secrets…"

She couldn't help but let a light, shaky laugh escape. It almost seemed ironic that that was what she would be reading, when she was sitting there thinking about how much she missed Quinn and wanted her mom back.

No, correction: how much real Rachel missed Quinn and wanted her mom back. _I hate Quinn. She's thrown away everything I've never got to have over a child that she was better off giving up for adoption. And I don't need a mother. I have myself as a role model, and two loving dads who give me whatever I want, _she reminded herself.

Rachel just suddenly burst out crying. Usually when she reminded herself of these things, she felt like an actress who was reminding herself how to play the right part. She could be professional about it. But now, it didn't feel the same.

It felt like lying, for once. That's what it had always been, after all, but Rachel had never actually felt guilty about it until now.

Rachel, in the confusion of her raw emotion suddenly coming through, got up and carefully opened the top drawer of her dresser. Three rows of carefully folded and paired knee socks and undergarments stared back at her, but so did a little shoe box left over from her first pair of mary janes as a baby. The box had been painted hot pink, and had little gold star stickers stuck all over it.

Rachel slowly closed the drawer and hesitantly sat back down on her bed, setting the box down in her lap. She removed the lid and took out a large stack of pictures.

Pictures from scattered time periods in her life, from the only recent picture she had of Shelby and her together as of last year and the only baby picture she had of herself, in the hospital in her mother's arms, to dozens and dozens of pictures of Quinn and her together. A small stack of her old cheerleading trading cards from cheerleading for the boys' rec league football team in elementary school topped off the pile. She set those aside, figuring she would save the least painful memories for last. Thinking about cheerleading was more wistful than painful. Thinking about the friends she used to have and her mom, though, actually hurt.

Quinn and her in matching costumes on Halloween, in third grade. They'd gone as Oompa Loompas. They had both had a brief obsession with Charlie and the Chocolate Factory that year when their teacher read the book out loud to them at story time. It had been both of their favorite movies for a year.

A tiny, one-year-old Rachel with tiny, wispy little pigtails dressed in a yellow flowered onesie. Rachel didn't remember anything from when she was a baby; her earliest memory was from Pre-K when she bit the boy who stole her favorite Barbie doll. But she was sure babyhood had been a happier time than senior year was shaping out to be.

Rachel on top of a small, three-person pyramid at her tenth birthday party. One of her bottom teeth was missing and she looked as if she would lose her balance any minute. The two people she was standing on top of were her two best friends at the time, Santana and Quinn. Santana had been nice once, but that all changed about the time when Quinn stopped wanting to be friends with her. The two had been a package deal back then, before Quinn got pregnant and got kicked off the Cheerios. That was when Santana had really deflected to Brittany instead of being besties with Quinn.

Rachel flipped through the other pictures more quickly after seeing how much it really hurt to be looking at all of her forgotten memories, until the doorbell rang and she jumped, scattering all the pictures everywhere.

She was about to get up and answer it, thinking it would be one of her dads having locked themselves out of the house or something, until she noticed Sam's jacket lying in the corner of her room.

"He probably came back for it," she told herself, quickly picking up the scattered pictures and throwing them in a heap back in the box. She quickly balanced the lid on top and shoved the box under her bed for the time being.

Rachel raced downstairs and answered the door. Sure enough, a cold-looking Sam was standing there in the pouring rain, rocking on his heels with his hands crammed in his front pockets.

"Hi," he said awkwardly, then explained, "I forgot my jacket. And I'm a little wet…can I come in?"

Seeing Sam standing there and shivering in the rain, Rachel completely forgot how tempted she was to throw his jacket at him and send him on his way. A warm smile crossed her puffy-eyed, tear-streaked face as she stepped aside and said welcomingly, "Hello, Sam; nice to see you again. Why don't you come in and go get your jacket so you can warm up?"

Sam thanked her and stepped inside, heat spreading through his body almost instantly. He followed her up the stairs, unable to keep from noticing that she looked like she'd been crying.

"Are you okay?" he asked slowly, a little suspicious that something was wrong. "I'm fine," Rachel lied, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Finn and I got into a bit of an argument; that's all."

When in Rachel's room, she quickly shoved his jacket in his arms and said dismissively, "I'll make you some hot chocolate before you go home."

Sam couldn't help but feel like something was still wrong, and suddenly felt kind of guilty for not challenging her earlier. He knew what it felt like to be upset and feel alone, and imagined how much better it would've been if someone had just spoken up for him. Or cared, even. If someone had cared about him, he probably never would have gotten into the mess that he was in now. He'd be singing Stacy to sleep every night without a problem and would never have had to help Rachel with her project, something he was now sure would be impossible to keep up with his cover over the course of.

Rachel was pretty perceptive, after all. Or, at least, she wasn't stupid. Sam knew that much. It wouldn't take her long to figure out that he was hiding something. And once Rachel Berry knew, so did the whole glee club. It wouldn't be long before everyone thought that Sam Evans was a bisexual freak with an eating disorder and some major self-esteem issues.

Even if it was true, Sam didn't think he could handle that.

But there were more important things to worry about right then, like whether or not Rachel was lying to him or not. "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked as Rachel hurried around the kitchen. She stopped in her tracks, slowly stirring the mug of hot chocolate she was making for him. She didn't say anything.

But Sam could see her shoulders shaking, even if only slightly.

Sam bit his lip and awkwardly wondered what he should say to her. He didn't know what was really wrong – for all he knew, she really had gotten into an argument with her stupid, bossy, smart-ass boyfriend – but he wasn't sure how to handle it either way. He was pretty bad with his own feelings, but when it came to other people, he was even more clueless.

Especially because, well, Rachel was a girl. And girls were…confusing.

Sam sighed and nervously ran a hand through his hair while Rachel stood there and cried.

Eventually, he couldn't take it anymore. The guilt was enough to suddenly inspire him to know what to do. He didn't know how or why, but it felt a hell of a lot better than standing around and letting Rachel feel sorry for herself.

Sam backed up and drifted towards the door, picking up the keys to what he guessed was Rachel's car off the counter. "C'mon," he said. Rachel wiped away a tear and looked over at him, looking lost.

"What?" she said, not sure what was happening. But she couldn't help but break into a bit of a smile.

"I'm taking you out. Let's go grab something to eat or something," he said.

He wasn't sure how he knew that would help, but it did. Rachel smiled again - a bit halfheartedly, but it was still a smile and Sam still felt like that was worth something - and reached for her coat.


	7. Audience of One

Finding a Voice

7: Audience of One

The first moment Sam saw Trace was always the same, no matter how many times his brain chose to replay it.

_Getting checked into that treatment center was the pivotal moment for Sam - when he finally realized something was wrong, even if he refused to accept that fact at first. It was surreal for him, because he knew he had a problem even if he didn't want to admit it, and he knew this was meant to help, but he couldn't feel anything. He was completely numb, as if he wasn't even alive anymore. It was like he'd completely turned his back on life._

_It had scared him at first - that he wasn't feeling anything, except for a small ache in his stomach protesting against being there. He was getting the vibe that this place was going to hurt him before it helped him. Sam didn't want that. He wanted healing right away; he didn't want to have to let things get worse before they got better._

_That first lingering glance from Trace had shattered that feeling, if only for a moment – leaving him with a confusing feeling of attraction and anxiety the moment he met the gaze of his emerald green eyes._

_The feeling faded after only a second, but Sam couldn't go back to being numb with his heart racing and his hormones lighting a fire in his mind, especially when he didn't know why._

_He was a guy. Trace was another guy. That wasn't right._

_Especially not for a guy under the misconception that he was perfectly straight, like a line drawn with a ruler. _

_The more time he spent in the treatment center, in close proximity to this black-haired, green-eyed sex god, the more he began to discover the slight curves in that line._

_He still remembered the feeling of soft hands brushing against his bare waist, of even softer lips moving almost rhythmically against the side of his neck. It was forever burned in his memory, and so was the conversation beforehand. _

_Sam had refused to speak to anyone. Doctors and counselors had tried to get through to him, but he wouldn't say a word. He refused to let them 'help' him._

_Trace was the one who finally opened him up, though. All he'd said was, "You can talk, you know. You're not being recorded or anything. You haven't done anything wrong."_

_Sam opened his mouth, but words refused to come out as usual. He was speechless at the fact that Trace seemed to know exactly how he felt and what he was thinking. It was strange to think that his emotions towards what had happened – what was happening – were universal, or at least more common than he had thought. _

_In fact, it seemed impossible. _

"_You don't know what I'm going through," Sam managed to choke out, leaning up against the wall. It felt like if he strayed from it, Trace would swallow him up, so he just didn't._

_Trace simply lifted an eyebrow and replied, "_I_ don't know what you're going through? _They_ don't know what you're going through. I do. I'm here for the same fucking reasons as you, remember? You don't have to be a bitch about it. I get it. It's all about control, right? Something happened, you felt the need to conform, and you liked being able to control what you ate and when…then it all just spiraled out of control. Dude, I'm not stupid. Just because I'm bulemic doesn't mean I'm a rock. I'm not insensitive."_

_Sam wondered what that had anything to do with him talking, but Trace answered the question soon enough, even without any cue from him: "You don't have to cut yourself off from me or anyone else here. You just have to figure out when you're willing to speak about it. Seriously, we've both got a problem, but you've gotta be willing to fix it, man." _

_Sam was still confused. "I..I don't…" he started, but Trace just rolled his eyes. "You're cute, you know that? But that's beside the point. Really I'm just trying to say hi, and I know you're bottling everything up because you think you don't need to be here or that nothing's going to help, but that's not true. It'll be a lot better once you stop playing the silent card. Trust me. I know."_

_Sam bit his lip, a billion thoughts passing through his mind all at once. He was somewhat afraid of all the emotions that were racing through him, threatening to form a crack in his thought-to-be-good judgement. The last time he'd felt like that was with Quinn._

_Trace's eyebrows knitted together in confusion, and then he sighed exasperatedly. "Oh, sorry…finally get another guy at this place, and he just ends up being a straight boy, huh? I've really got to learn to put a filter on that mouth of mine," he muttered, rocking back and forth on his heels._

Straight?_ Sam remembered thinking, his arms crossed and his fingernails digging uncomfortably into his arm. All at the same time, he managed to wonder why sexuality was so black and white, feel disgusted at himself for questioning this against his parents' old-world Christian standards, and feel even more disgusted at the uncanny attraction he harbored for Trace._

_Frustrated with himself, he completely ignored the fact that Trace was there and kicked the wall. "I'm not gay, dammit!" he tried to convince himself. _

_Trace stood and watched as Sam let out his anger, then said once he had quieted down, "There's nothing wrong with being confused."_

"_Yes, there is," Sam muttered, refusing to back off of his opinion. He had to know, and he had to know now. He couldn't take much more of this confusion or he was sure he'd drive himself insane. Girls, guys, black, white, gray…he just couldn't take it. Sam wanted a definite label – preferably straight. He'd grown up in a conservative environment. His dad had spent his whole life exposing him to 'manly' stuff like football and cars, maybe as an antidote. 'Gay' and 'bisexual' were two words that never came up in his house. His family was one of those families that saw these things as the world's blemishes – not that Sam agreed entirely – and pretended like they didn't exist._

_Trace took a deep breath, the sound bringing Sam back into the heat of the moment and out of the safety of his own thoughts. Everything that followed was a blur._

_It seemed like everything had happened within the same second: Trace pressed Sam against the wall behind them, trapping him, and hesitantly leaned in, softly pressing his lips against Sam's. Even from that first kiss, it was obvious that Trace had a lot more experience than Sam did. Kissing turned into teasing. Sam's head was spinning and he suddenly felt like they needed to open a window or something. _

_They never broke apart from each other, even as Trace fumbled backwards to shut and lock the door behind them. Sam didn't want to give in, but fighting the reaction was hard, so hard that he felt like he'd completely lost control of his actions as he tangled his fingers in Trace's hair…._

Sam woke with a start, his sheets bunched up around him. He reached up to wipe the sweat off his forehead, still shaking. His dreams – or replayed memories, I should say – were always so vivid that he never knew what was reality and what wasn't. Sometimes it felt like he'd been transported back in time, back to the moments he was living through over and over again at night.

Sam leaned over and glanced at the clock. It was still only about two in the morning.

His eyes began to water as he recalled the intensity of his dream. Sam spent the rest of the night restlessly tossing back and forth, unable to let go of what he had just seen for the millionth time.

Every night had been like this since summer had ended and he was allowed to resume his old life.


	8. Something

Finding a Voice

8: Something

Rachel cautiously stepped up to the door, not sure if casually dropping in like this would be considered polite or not. She knew her project was due in a month, and that Sam had given her pretty much nothing that could be considered useful, but she still wasn't sure if it was right to be here or not.

After all, it was almost eight at night and Rachel didn't know if that would be considered late or not in Sam's house. She knew she wasn't supposed to be out, but her dads were away on business for the weekend, and they had absolutely no way of knowing that she was gone…unless, of course, they called the house, but Rachel had her cell phone on her in case of emergency. But, still, she wasn't sure how Sam might react to her randomly dropping in to work on her interview piece.

Reluctantly, Rachel let out a sigh and knocked sharply on the door, a sudden gust of wind blowing through her hair. Rachel tugged on the ends of her gloves, careful not to drop her notebook, which was tucked under her arm, and waited patiently.

Inside, Stacy and Stevie had heard the knock, while Sam hadn't. Sam was asleep at the tiny kitchen table, his head resting on his Statistics textbook. Stevie dragged a chair over to the door to look through the peephole, while Stacy ran over and started tugging on Sam's sleeve.

"Sammy," she said. "Sammy…wake up…someone's at the door!"

Sam slowly stirred awake, giving a sleepy smile when he saw Stacy.

"Hey, kiddo," he greeted her. "What's the matter?"

Stacy gave him a look so serious it was almost funny and pointed at the door. "Someone's here."

Sam chuckled and ruffled her hair, getting up and running a hand through his own messy hair as he went to go open the door.

"Stevie, what are you doing?" he asked with a grin, picking up his little brother and putting him down on the bed. He moved the chair out of the way so he could pull the door open.

There stood Rachel, in her red button-down coat, looking as if she might freeze to death any minute. His eyes locked on the notebook she was holding. She must've been here for their project. Knowing that made Sam nervous. It was only so long until she would ask a big question, or something he didn't know how to answer, and he would end up giving himself away. Feeling like his fate was in her hands was kind of disorienting, not to mention plain old terrifying.

"Um, hi Sam," Rachel said, a smile spreading across her face.

"Hi," Sam replied, giving her a questioning look. He opened his mouth to ask her what had brought her here, even if he already kind of knew, but Stacy interrupted him before he could say anything.

"Rachel!" she exclaimed with a huge grin, bounding across the room and clinging onto Rachel's leg. Sam couldn't help but smile. Stacy had loved Rachel ever since Sam had brought her into glee club, and so had Stevie. He hadn't known Rachel had had such a way with kids until she'd met his brother and sister.

"Rachel!" Stevie said likewise, hopping off the bed and running to go stand beside his big brother. Rachel crouched down and smiled at him and Stacy.

"Hi," she said cheerfully, giving Stacy a quick hug.

"Are you going to play with me?" Stacy asked, still smiling. Sam looked away and laughed, cramming his hands into his back pockets. Stacy was so up-front; it almost made him jealous sometimes.

"Of course I am," Rachel laughed, "but Sam and I have to do something first for school. But I would love to play with you afterwards." Stacy looked momentarily disappointed before instantly perking up again.

"Okay!" she exclaimed. Rachel grinned before standing back up to her full height, looking up at Sam. He smiled at her.

"Sorry. She really likes you," he said, picking Stacy up and hoisting her onto his shoulders before tossing her down on the bed. Stacy was giggling madly the whole time.

"No, it's quite alright," Rachel replied with a smile. "I can't say I'm not fond of her as well. I always wanted a little sister."

Sam smiled at that, but wasn't sure what else to say. His eyes kept drifting back down to Rachel's notebook and the glittery pink cover, wondering what she had written about him in there. He worried that it would be more observations than things he had actually said, since he knew he hadn't said much…but there was a reason for that, and he wasn't willing to disclose much more information than he already had.

There was just too much that Rachel couldn't know about him, that he didn't want anyone to know about him. He didn't want people worrying about him, or worse, making fun of him for it. He knew Rachel wouldn't do that, but if word got around, Karofsky would be all over him in the blink of an eye. And he didn't want Rachel worried about him, either, because he knew she cared about him – the same way she cared about all of her friends from glee club, at least – and that she would try to take action if she thought there was something wrong with him.

Sam knew that could only lead to déjà vu – more of the doctors, more of the talking, more of the being forced to accept his emotions for what his therapist wanted them to be rather than for what they really were. More people pretending to understand him just to make him more confused…more people like Trace. More hurt. More questions. More wondering what had gone wrong in his life and made him so screwed up.

He wouldn't survive it all a second time; of that he was sure.

Rachel snapped him out of his thoughts with the words he had been dreading: "Um, I hope you don't mind, but I was free and I thought it might be an opportune moment to get some work done on our project."

Sam bit his lip before muttering, "Sure." He turned around so he could get Stevie settled before taking his attention off of his little siblings, whom he would be overly concerned about if he didn't know exactly where they were and what they were doing, but found that he had crawled up next to Stacy in bed and that the two seemed to be fast asleep.

"Long day?" Rachel commented with a light laugh, tipping her head to one side as she watched the rise and fall of the kids' breath. She had always wanted a family like that, one where she would have someone to lean on…but some people just weren't lucky. Rachel certainly wasn't. She was an only child, and even if her dads chose to adopt again, she would never have a brother or sister of her own flesh and blood…well, unless you counted Beth, but Rachel didn't.

Shelby and her sad excuse for a 'family' had hurt her far too many times for Rachel to want to accept them as a part of her life. There had been a time when she had tried for that, even wanted it, but Shelby wasn't willing to take on the role, and for that, Rachel would never fully forgive her. It only hurt more now that she had adopted Beth. It was like Beth was taking on the part that Rachel was supposed to play as Shelby's daughter.

Rachel had wanted to blame Quinn for it at first, but she couldn't bring herself to place the blame on her old friend. So she directed her hatred towards Shelby, and only felt a slight longing for Quinn to be by her side again, the only person she trusted with all her secrets. Kurt and Mercedes were filling that role for her now, but it just wasn't the same.

"Yeah…just keep your voice down so you won't wake them up," Sam said quietly. There was something about his voice that made Rachel suddenly feel almost…safer. Definitely calmer. She wasn't sure why, but it didn't matter. It was a welcome feeling.

Rachel literally shook herself out of her brief trance and whispered, "Okay. Where should we sit?" She glanced around the motel room. There wasn't exactly much room, but – figuring it was probably a bit of a touchy subject – she wasn't about to point that out.

Sam thought for a moment, scratching the back of his head, then started to clear his school books off the table. He stacked them up into a lopsided pile, then carefully bent down and placed them on the floor next to his backpack. They spilled into a heap, but Sam ignored it, careful not to trip as he stepped over his books so he could pull a chair out for Rachel.

"Why thank you," Rachel murmured politely, a smile crossing her face as she hung her jacket over the back of the chair and sat down, smoothing out her skirt as she did so. She hesitantly placed her notebook down on the table, as if she it was a part of her that she didn't want to let go of, and pulled the cap off her pen with her teeth.

Sam stumbled over his books on his way back over, blushing a little from the embarrassment even after he sat down. Maybe it was just that he was nervous. Rachel and him had barely gotten any of the interviewing for her project done, after all, and he wasn't sure what it might entail. He'd only been half-listening when she had explained her plan and he was nervous that she might manage to deduce something from his secretiveness…and then go digging for more information.

If she was in a journalism class, she obviously knew how to press for facts, and Sam was a little scared that one of these days, she'd whip out one of her reporter tricks and it would work….or even that she would go questioning his mom or his dad or Quinn or anyone else who might accidentally spill something about him. He didn't honestly believe that an innocent girl like Rachel would go prying around in his private business, but at the same time, he couldn't manage to completely convince himself that she wouldn't.

Part of him wondered why he had agreed to this in the frst place, why he hadn't just said no…but then he remembered: they were keeping up with an act. Rachel was supposed to be helping him with his singing.

Sam almost laughed. He'd lost all hope on that front, so the idea that someone had been supposed to help him was kind of funny.

"All right. So Sam," Rachel began, folding her hands neatly in her lap. "Shall we begin?" The smile on her face seemed so out of place in this situation – or at least to Sam, who was really starting to feel the heat of his overactive nerves – that it made Sam crack a smile, too.

He shrugged and replied,"Yeah, I guess."

"If I remember correctly, you only moved here last year. What's the environment at McKinley like to an outsider?" Rachel asked. Sam smiled again, noticing how professional and reporter-like her voice sounded, but his smile quickly faded when he opened his mouth to answer the question.

"Harsh," he said. "I'm not gonna lie."

The irony of the fact that he was saying that when he had lied so frequently to protect his reputation would have been funny if the weight of the question wasn't still pressing into his brain. It was heavy, and he knew Rachel would be looking for more than his typically short and to the point answers – the less detail, the less she knew about him, and it wasn't safe to get close to people when you had a secret to keep – but he wasn't sure if saying the wrong thing would make him seem too much like a victim…and you never wanted to sound like a victim when it came to popularity.

High school was a dog-eat-dog world. Sam wanted everyone to believe he was on top, because even if he didn't care about popularity as much as his friends seemed to think, it meant people would lay off. Last year, after sticking up for Kurt and punching Karofsky in the face, that black eye had gotten him a lot more than a few extra hugs and kisses from Quinn. It had gotten him respect. Guys didn't pass by him in the hall without a nod of acknowledgement, and dudes that normally would've given him trouble just brushed past him like he wasn't worth their efforts.

Being popular – or acting like you were popular – was safer. That promise of safety had been what had gotten Sam into this mess in the first place, true, but he would still rather be able to come to school without having to worry about who was going to target him next than come to school as himself, but find himself tossed in a dumpster every morning.

"Care to elaborate?" Rachel asked, again sounding just like a reporter. Sam didn't doubt she would be great at this someday, if Broadway didn't work out.

It had been the question he was waiting for. He wasn't sure whether he should answer truthfully and take the risk, or if he should just say silent. His instincts were telling him to keep quiet, but part of him wanted to be able to come clean about at least one thing in his life.

Sam sighed before saying, "No comment."

Rachel seemed disappointed for a moment, which crushed him – he wasn't sure why, but the look of discouragement on her face had stung – but nodded before bending over her notebook and jotting down some notes. She wrote slowly, her pen forming every letter precisely and perfectly.

Sam couldn't help but feel kind of guilty for not saying anything else. He knew why he had done it – he was just trying to protect himself – but he could tell that Rachel was starting to get frustrated with him, even if she was just too nice to say anything. He knew what it was like to be open with people only to get nothing back; he'd been through it himself with Quinn. That had to be how she was feeling just then.

Every fighting instinct inside of him was screaming against it, but Sam quickly made up his mind: "Wait…I'll answer, but only if you answer my question first."

Rachel gave him a look of confusion, furrowing her brow, and cocked her head to one side. An intrigued smile started to spread across her face. "Go on," she invited.

"Why me?" Sam asked with a sheepish grin at the mere bluntness of the question. It was as simple as that; he just wanted to know what could possibly be so interesting about him that she kept pressing on…or what had motivated her to even consider him as a subject in the first place.

He could've lied for her so she didn't get in trouble with Mr. Shue without backup evidence, and Sam knew Rachel was smart enough to know that, so it was a mystery to him why she had made such an effort to learn more about him. Sam was never sure why people cared about him. He wasn't anything special. He didn't have Rachel's talent – or any talent, really; not anymore – and without his voice, there wasn't even a glimmer of anything valuable within him. He was just…normal. Painfully normal.

Rachel sighed, cupping her chin in the palm of her hand. She had no idea how she should go about answering his question. It wasn't that she wasn't willing to tell him the truth, because she knew she needed this answer – after all, knowing Sam, it was probably one of the only complete answers she was going to get – but she wasn't sure how to say it without sounding…well, bitchy.

"If you're going to be honest with me, I should be honest with you," Rachel said. The way she had said it made Sam's stomach drop, setting a frenzy of thoughts off in his head. The way she had said it made it sound like she was going to spill something heavy, and that kind of worried him. He had to admit that he was curious, since he knew pretty much nothing about her, but he was scared that she was going to say something that was going to hurt: _This isn't a real project. Finn's paying me to do this. He wanted something to use against you. _Or worse than that: _This was kind of an experiment. Quinn wanted me to see what you'd be willing to share with someone who you didn't know as well as you know her, because she was worried you were keeping something from her._

With his pessimistic thoughts on the rise, he was pretty surprised when he heard Rachel say, "You weren't my first choice. You see, I wanted to do Quinn for my project, because she's basically the school's big enigma right now…I mean, with her hair and her piercings and-"

Sam, interrupting, muttered, "That damn tramp stamp…"

Rachel cracked a smile before continuing: "Yes, that too. But she turned from this clean-cut teen mother into some kind of…um, excuse my language, _whore_, and nobody's got any kind of a clue as to why. It's just…I'm worred about her."

Sam gave her a confused look. "Why would you be worried about Quinn?" he asked. "I thought you hated her."

Rachel's heartbeat quickened. She knew she'd said too much, made herself seem like some kind of a stalker or something…Sam didn't know that they used to be friends, after all, and she certainly wasn't about to tell him. She already hated that the whole school knew about their falling out – and laughed at it like it was some kind of a joke, too…well, most of them, anyways…Quinn had never laughed, but she'd never apologized for changing, either – and she wasn't about to purposely let anyone else in on it.

"Oh, believe me, I do," Real Rachel lied. For Fake Rachel, it would have been easy to say that because for her, it was true, but for some odd reason, Rachel had a hard time being Fake Rachel around Sam. "But…Quinn was, um, in glee club with me, and in glee club, we're like a family, so even if we don't like each other, we kind of miss having each other around. And we get worried for each other."

Sam nodded slowly, not sure what to make of what she had just said. He'd only heard half of it, to tell the truth; he'd mostly been focusing on how frazzled she seemed. Fragile, too. Something about her when she talked about Quinn seemed kind of vulnerable. It seemed to show a part of her that was still healing…like a broken vase someone had tried to fix, but the glue hadn't completely dried yet.

A short silence fell, and Sam didn't like it. It was…uncomfortable.

"So what's an 'enigma'?" he asked, trying to break the silence. He was honestly curious; he wasn't very good with words or spelling. He didn't like to read much, either, which was probably why his vocabulary wasn't so great…but he was dyslexic, so whenever he read, the letters got all jumbled up, and that was more frustrating to him than anything else. It definitely wasn't something he would want to do in his spare time.

Rachel thought for a moment before replying, "It's like a mystery."

"So why is Quinn such a 'mystery'?" Sam asked, putting air quotes around the word 'mystery.' He didn't think there was anything mysterious about Quinn. She'd taken a couple wrong turns in life after losing Beth and now she was just trying to cope. There wasn't much mystery to it, as far as he was concerned. Maybe he was just blinded by the fact that his mother was best friends with Judy Fabray, and he had been forced to spend way too much time with Quinn over the past year, so he'd seen her go through a lot, but it seemed pretty obvious to him that something had happened to make her act like she did now.

Rachel took a deep breath, once again not sure how to explain herself. How she felt about Quinn's situation was complicated. It wasn't necessarily that she found Quinn to be a mystery, but Rachel had been completely exiled from her life for the past three years, so she wasn't really sure what could have caused her to change so much.

"Well, she's very interesting," Rachel started. "I mean, she's the biggest lost cause in the whole school - nay, in Lima - and she has absolutely no sense of self preservation…it makes a girl wonder how she got that way." She shrugged, hoping that she didn't sound too rude.

Fake Rachel's feelings had sort of taken over for a moment, mostly because Real Rachel was really just frustrated that she hadn't had an honest conversation with Quinn since the eighth grade, and she didn't want to seem too vulnerable in front of Sam. She was supposed to be tough, and Sam didn't know her well enough to know how sensitive she was, so she had to keep up that tough act for as long as her emotions would possibly let her.

Sam fell quiet, a lump rising in the back of his throat. "Beth," he said under his breath. It was a tiny piece of information Quinn had shared with him back when they were going out…her baby. Quinn had always had a strong motherly instinct – which was especially obvious back then; back when they had dated, Quinn was always watching out for him the same way his mom did – so it must've hurt her to lose Beth. It seemed like a logical explanation.

"What?" Rachel said, leaning in towards him. She hadn't heard what he had said, and was curious as to what it could possibly be. _What would he know about Quinn that I don't? _she wondered. She didn't think Sam and Quinn had ended their relationship on good terms – not in the least – so she found it strange that he would know something so crucial about her.

Sam awkwardly cleared his throat, rising out of his chair. "Nothing," he blurted. "It's, uh, getting kinda late. Maybe you should go home before my parents get here…I don't want them thinking I've got a new girlfriend or something…"

"Well, you do," Rachel said, a smile crossing her face. Sam gave her a confused look. "You have me…I mean, I'm your friend, and I'm a girl," she elaborated.

Sam laughed. "Oh, right," he said, starting to back up towards the door.

"Well, you are right; it is starting to get late…your parents will be home for dinner, won't they? If they won't be, I'm sure Daddies would be happy to have you and your brother and sister over," Rachel said, glancing concernedly over at Stevie and Stacy. Not only was she genuinely worried for them, like she had been ever since learning that they lived in the motel, but she wasn't ready for this conversation to end. She still had a million more questions for Sam, including her more recent one concerning Quinn…

"No," Sam said bluntly, making it seem very, very final. It was kind of surprising to Rachel.

Sam, however, wasn't surprised by his own reaction. He always got very touchy at mention of food, and always refused whenever someone tried to ask him over for dinner. After all, he still had some pretty weird eating habits, and that was a dead giveaway for his eating disorder, apparently…Trace had said it himself: _"You know, if you're so secretive, you really shouldn't chop up your food like that. It's a dead giveaway. Doctors look for it and all that shit. People are gonna catch on that you're an anorexic."_

Sam had made an effort to stop after hearing that, but eating his food in larger pieces made him feel like he was eating more, and that always made him kind of hate himself for awhile. He'd eventually just decided that he wasn't going to eat around people who didn't know about his disorder so that he couldn't endanger his reputation. It was why he never sat with anyone at lunch, or why he never went out for pizza with Puck or any of the guys anymore. He just couldn't afford to take the risk.

"Oh, um…all right. I guess I'll see you tomorrow then?" Rachel said, unable to keep her eyes locked on Sam's, even as pretty as his gray-green irises were. It wasn't that he had scared her or anything; she just felt a little embarrassed. She knew she had overstepped some boundary, but how didn't make sense to her…all she had done was asked him over for dinner, and that didn't seem very offensive. There was obviously something else going on, and Rachel would definitely be worrying about it later…but right now, she just hoped he wasn't mad at her.

"Yeah," Sam said, staring down at his toes and backing out of the doorway, trying to clear room for Rachel to walk past him. He felt a little ashamed of himself now; he seemed to have made Rachel upset, and he didn't mean to hurt anyone's feelings. He liked to think he was a nice guy...but moments like this kind of made him doubt himself.

Rachel gave him a halfhearted smile that seemed more like courtesy than anything else as she brushed past him, barely clipping his shoulder as she draped her coat across her shoulders, hugging her notebook close to her heart as she started down the steps towards her car.

Sam just stood in the doorway and watched her walk away, kind of regretting that he hadn't stopped her, or at least tried to apologize. After all, she'd been there for him through his dad losing his job last year, and had only tried to be his friend…she didn't deserve him getting pissy towards her when she was only trying to be nice.

"Rachel!" Sam called out all of a sudden, just as Rachel was reaching her car. He wasn't sure exactly what he was going to say to her, because there was so much to be said, but he just hoped that she would turn around and look at him. If she didn't completely ignore him, it would hopefully make Sam feel a little better about himself.

Rachel completely froze, partially not wanting to turn around, but knowing that she should. She would have been just as content walking away and going home to analyze the little information Sam had actually given her – she'd never actually gotten her answer – but she kind of wanted to hear what he had to say.

"Thanks for being my friend," Sam said, starting to smile. Rachel didn't reply, but she grinned back before turning around and getting into her car.

Sam stood in the doorway and watched as she drove away, waving at her as she pulled onto the road. He smiled to himself as he rocked back and forth on his heels for a moment or two, then walked back inside and shut the door behind him. Stacy was awake, sitting at the foot of the bed and rubbing her eyes sleepily.

"Where's Rachel?" Stacy asked, sounding confused and tired. She must've been wondering what had happened to her playmate.

"Hey, kiddo," Sam said, his smile getting bigger as he went to go sit next to his sister. He put an arm around her and explained, "Rachel had to go home. Are you getting hungry yet?"

Stacy shook her head. "No, I just want to go back to sleep tonight," she replied. Sam stood up and went to go look for her bedtime stuff.

"Okay…just gimme a minute and then we'll get you into your jammies for bed," he said, grinning at her before turning to rummage around through the few suitcases and boxes that were scattered across the ground. Even after almost six months of living in the motel, they still hadn't unpacked…not that they had much left to unpack.

Sam was hunched over, trying to find Stacy's teddy bear, Mr. McBeary, when Stacy asked, "Sammy, will you sing me a lullaby tonight?"

Sam froze. It suddenly got hard for him to swallow. He bit his lip, trying to fight the tears that wanted to fall, and choked out, "Not tonight, Stace."


	9. Could Tell a Love

Finding a Voice

9: Could Tell a Love

_(Author's Note: I'm ridiculously sorry for the wait! I know, it's been months, but things have been somewhat hectic and I just haven't had the time to write…but I'm looking at getting this story up and going again and updating at a normal pace, so don't give up on me yet!)_

"_Thanks for being my friend."_

Rachel hadn't been exactly sure of what to call the relationship she had with Sam – a business partnership, perhaps – until he'd said that. 'Friend' probably would have been the last word she would've used before that, since she was so used to carefully avoiding it; people didn't seem to like when they were wrongfully connected with Rachel Berry, unpopularity extroardinaire. But now that Sam had said it himself, something about it had rung true, and it suddenly seemed clear that they had to be friends. Sam was someone she could trust to stick by her. He wasn't going to turn on her and leave her waiting in the sidelines for a day that would never come when they could become friends again.

After all, what were the odds of that happening to the same person twice?

Well, Rachel had to remind herself, for a normal person, it was highly improbable…but Miss Rachel Barbra Berry, of a well-to-do family and above-average talent, was so far down on the social ladder at McKinley High that she could barely hold on to the bottom rung, and that hardly qualified as 'normal.' It wasn't hard for someone to take advantage of a girl like that, socially at least. She would cling on to any sign of a friendship she could find.

Rachel always felt like she was treading on water, like she was one second away from going under any minute. She felt like she always had to prepare to hold her breath around Kurt and Mercedes and Finn, and anyone else who showed any interest in being her friend. Hell, even around Sam, she treaded lightly. Friendship was uncharted territory for Rachel Berry, and she had always felt like she had to be careful so that she didn't drown in it all.

But now, here in her room with Sam, she was taking baby steps, definitely, but they were confident baby steps. She wasn't about to rush straight to the best friend stage and overwhelm him, and get rid of the only chance she had to actually make an emotional tie that wasn't going to stretch too far and snap, like a rubber band pulled beyond its limits. But she didn't sense anything ingenuine about their budding friendship, and she didn't feel like she was walking on hot coals, either.

She didn't want to scamper off like a frightened rabbit; she was ready this time to actually make a friend. If he tried to get close to her, she wouldn't become overbearing or dive in too deep, try to get too up close and personal with him too fast. It was actually clear how to handle the situation, and it actually felt ridiculous calling it a 'situation.' It was just…life. The start of something new and exciting.

And, from a professional point of view, it seemed like Sam suddenly trusted her more. Maybe he felt the same way about that little word, 'friend,' that it suddenly put things into perspective. But whatever the answer, it seemed like this project was actually getting somewhere. He was suddenly answering her questions with more than single syllables and Rachel actually had the beginnings of a first draft in that little pink notebook of hers.

His entire background took up three whole pages, with the little chunks of descriptive answers Sam had given her. She could recite his entire history before coming to Lima now; she had read and reread and phrased and rephrashed all of the answers he'd given her so many times that she knew it by heart.

Samuel Gryffin Evans was born on May 15, 1995 in Nashville, Tennessee. His mom's name was Mary and his dad's name was Dwight. He was named after a baseball player and his great-grandfather, who had been killed in WWII. He used to go to Dalton, but no, he wasn't a Warbler and he'd never met Blaine Anderson before.

"It was a pretty big school; it was possible not to know everybody," he'd said. "I mean, I knew who he was, but I didn't _know him_ know him…he's the guy who wears way too much hair gel, right?"

Sam's mom was fresh out of college when she'd had him, so she was still fairly young compared to a lot of other mothers. Stevie came when he was just about to turn eight, and he was almost ten when Stacy was born. He'd told Rachel he liked babysitting most of the time, but that, quote, 'Stacy Evans is probably the most difficult kid to get to go to bed in the history of forever.'

His dad used to be the head of a construction site – not the head of the company, but the boss of all the workers on that particular project.

"Things weren't going good for them on the site, and stuff was going too slow; they were really off schedule, and they just blamed it on my dad," Sam had explained. "So they just told him, y'know, 'Sorry it didn't work out,' and let him go. It hit everyone hard."

When Rachel had asked about his relationship with Quinn, he'd explained about how he tried to make himself overly-concerned with popularity to keep up with her, and then after they broke up, he kept up with it so he could keep his mind off of his dad's job. He stopped caring when they'd lost their house, though; then his main concern was taking care of Stevie and Stacy.

She then blurted out a follow-up question without thinking: "And what's your relationship like with her now?"

He'd thought for a moment before replying, "Unwillingly close."

She probably should have figured that he wouldn't want to get into detail with that, but she couldn't contain her curiosity, so she pressed on.

Sam had simply interrupted her with a sharp, "I don't wanna talk about it."

And so she had left it at that, and moved on. Rachel already somehow knew the answer, but she'd asked him to explain in his own words what it was like when everyone had found out about him living in the motel.

That was when he'd decided to revert back to single-word answers: "Heartbreaking."

She didn't have to ask about the aftermath following that, because she remembered it; she was there. Her idea to buy Sam's guitar back was what had brought them together in the first place. It was what had acquainted them with each other, and in a way, it was how they'd ended up here.

The story wasn't perfect, but there were no more blank spots in terms of the question, "Where did Sam Evans come from?"

The one question that remained was, "Who is he?"

And Rachel thought she just might understand why: he didn't know.

Rachel understood that feeling. She wasn't exactly sure who she was anymore, either.

The sound of Sam's laughter brought her out of her thoughts and back into reality. It was then that she realized that she must've been laughing, too – probably at something he'd said. She must've subconsciously noticed it and found it funny, but without it actually registering.

Rachel took a good long look at him and realized that she hadn't ever looked at him before…well, she had, but she hadn't actually taken the chance to see what she was looking at.

He was really rather beautiful – she hated the word hot, or at least in terms of guys she did. His eyes were a light green flecked with golden brown, something she hadn't taken the time to notice before; she'd always thought his eyes were blue, though she wasn't sure why exactly. His hair seemed to get shaggier every day, and it was only about four or five inches away from brushing his shoulders. His bangs were cut unevenly, too, which normally would have bothered her, but she thought it looked kind of cute on him. Sam must've given up on his old lemon juice trick, too, because his hair had become a couple shades darker within the last month or two.

Sam gave Rachel a look, wondering why she was staring at him like that. Something on his face? Was his hair sticking up in the back? It had a tendency to do that sometimes…

"Um, what're you staring at?" Sam asked, feeling a little awkward and trying to keep his thoughts from racing self-consciously.

Rachel just blinked out of her trance and cracked a halfhearted smile. "Oh; sorry. I wasn't trying to seem rude or anything, I just…"

He cut her off, grinning: "It's cool."

Rachel's smile softened a bit, becoming more genuine. It was easier to mean her smiles when she wasn't preoccupied, worrying that she might have done or said something wrong – because no matter how comfortable she felt around him, she didn't doubt that there would be a way for their friendship to be jeopardized.

"Oh! I've been meaning to ask," Rachel began, something suddenly coming to her attention. "How are things going with, um…with your voice?"

Her voice became quieter and more unsure as she said this, being careful not to step over any boundaries. But she had remembered why they were supposed to be meeting up in the first place, before he had become her friend or even before he had become her project – Sam Evans' voice just wouldn't come anymore. And knowing that Sectionals were in a month …well, that scared her. Sam was one of their most talented, and she wasn't sure if they could get on without him. Next to Kurt, he had one of the best ranges and they would need something fresh to get the judges' attention. It would be far too predictable for Mr. Shuester to hand off all the solos to her and Finn, something she would never forget because it had been far too difficult for Fake Rachel to realize – because Fake Rachel couldn't get on without the best part or the best praise.

The best for the best; that was supposed to be her motto. And if she suddenly expressed no desire to be in the spotlight, she would certainly turn some heads and spread some rumors. After all, according to the logic of the McKinley High student body, there was a reason for anything, and that likely included any sudden personality changes on the part of Miss Rachel Berry.

"It's coming," Sam lied, just to keep Rachel off his back. Sometimes, he was thankful for her questions, knowing that she was pushing him towards accepting himself in a way a guidance counselor never could…but now was not one of those times.

Since hearing the crack in Stacy's voice the last time she had asked him to sing for her, and she'd replied with a heartbreakingly disappointed, "Oh," he was ashamed of his lost voice more than words could express. But no matter what he did, no matter what he gargled with or did to exercise his throat muscles, the same thing always happened: Sam would open his mouth and try to sing a note, and nothing would come out. Not if he tried to go high or low or right in the middle; it didn't matter what he did. He was officially good for nothing – his 'condition' wasn't 'stable enough' to play football, and he couldn't sing anymore…how was he supposed to get out of Lima now?

"You know, I'm really sorry. I feel terrible, I just…I didn't think there was anything I could do," Rachel said, averting her eyes and trying to avoid his. She didn't like to make eye contact unless she was absolutely sure of herself, and she couldn't say she was. She didn't understand the situation with Sam, or what was holding him back. She didn't understand how a person could have so much talent and have it just disappear like that.

But she cared enough to find out, and right then and there, The Real Rachel Barbra Berry vowed that she was going to find out what had taken the notes right out of Sam Evans' mouth. And she was going to start right now: "It has to be something mental. I mean, I'm not trying to play Dr. Phil, but I just think that you're holding yourself back….did something happen at home?"

Abruptly, Sam stood up and said, "I gotta go."

It was reflex. His gut was telling him it was time to get out while he could, before Rachel's words could guilt-trap him into revealing the truth, his weakness. He was trying to be Superman, hiding his vulnerability and trying to tackle issues that were too big for him to take on by himself. He was trying not to need anyone; he didn't want to impose or thrust his problems onto anyone else's shoulders. Rachel was better off not knowing the truth, better of without needing to worry about him; that was what he was trying to convince himself.

"Wait, are…are you sure?" Rachel asked, giving him a wide-eyed, almost pleading look. "Because it's nearly dinnertime, and I'm sure Daddy and Daddy will be home any minute now…are you sure you don't want to stay for dinner?"

"No," he blurted. He hadn't had to hear anything other than 'dinner' to know his answer. Anything that pertained to food – that was always his answer. No. There were no questions or arguments; food was the easiest giveaway. His eating rituals made it obvious that there was something wrong with him – it was obvious by the way he took five whole minutes to chew one bite, and from the way he had an almost OCD thing going with cutting his food into eighths before eating it. And although some people might be oblivious to what those things pointed towards, Rachel wasn't stupid.

"Oh…well, okay," she said, feeling a bit discouraged at being shot down like that. Still, she tried not to let it get her down: "Um, well, it's getting dark out…do you need a ride home? I've got my car; it's in the garage, I can go get my keys…"

"Um, no thanks, Rachel," Sam said, staring down at his toes. He began to drift towards the door, but paused about a foot away from the doorframe. He slowly turned around to face her, giving a halfhearted smile.

The words were out of his mouth before he could think about it and realize what he was giving away: "Don't worry about me."

Rachel seemed skeptical: "Why would I be worried?"

Sam mentally slapped himself and blurted, instantly, "Bye, Rachel."

Then he was gone, and Rachel was left with an open pink notebook in her lap, sitting on her bed and staring hopelessly at the door, questioning his statements and feeling like, no matter what he said, there was some reason why she suddenly felt like she had good cause to worry about Sam Evans…

And like it had something to do with his lost voice, and that the causes for both just might be one and the same.


	10. Running From Lions

Finding a Voice

10: Running From Lions

Rachel took a deep breath, smoothed down her hair with her hand, and exhaled, her notebook tucked under her arm and her pen tucked behind her ear.

_Confident. Be confident._

She then began to walk, scanning the lockers until her eyes locked on a familiar head of blond hair. A smile began to cross her face until it spread across so far that she seemed to glow with happiness.

"Sam!"

Sam, confused, gently set his geometry textbook back down on the bottom shelf of his locker, slowly looking over his shoulder to look for whoever had said his name.

Someone had called his name. No one had called his name since the first day of the school year, when Rachel…

_Well, I guess that's who,_ he realized as the name clicked into place, cutting off his own train of thought.

Sure enough, Rachel Berry, her face brightly lit up with one of her commercial-worthy smiles, was walking towards him, her head slightly tilted to one side like she did when she was thinking about what to write next. It could only mean that she had something heavy on her mind, when her head was tilted like that.

Sam didn't talk much these days, but he did a lot of observing, and that was just one of many of Rachel's mannerisms that Sam had picked up on by now. It was among other things, like the way that she always checked over her shoulder to see if anyone was listening in on their conversation before she said something meaningful or the way she always seemed to be fiddling with her hair when she lied. It was something he saw whenever Mr. Shue asked her a question about Sam's progress, and it was one of the many perks of being someone who sat quietly and watched rather than performed – he had her - and probably half of the glee club - completely figured out by now.

"Hey, Rachel," Sam said, trying to force a smile. It was one of the harder things to lie about, though – being happy – so he was sure that Rachel saw right through it. He figured she probably had him just about as figured out as he had her by now; she just seemed like the type of girl who would notice those things, too. Or maybe Sam just wanted to believe that he wasn't the only one who saw things rather than said them…

Of course, Rachel was definitely the type of girl who had a lot to say, but these days she seemed to be getting quieter. Sam heard the whispers in glee club, and everyone seemed to think that he had something to do with the toned-down, less loud-mouthed version of Rachel Berry. He was good at trying not to care what people thought by now – training for the real thing, he supposed; after all, he couldn't keep up this act forever, even though he certainly could and would be stubborn enough to try – but the way Finn seemed to take it kind of worried him.

Sam had been acutely aware of Finn's every word around Rachel these days. Maybe it was just the way she'd cried after their last argument that did it, but Sam had a gut feeling about Finn, and it wasn't a good one. He knew that Rachel was head-over-heels in love with him and all, but something just told him that it wasn't right. They didn't fit the way two people in love were supposed to. A good couple should fit together like the pieces of a puzzle, like two missing halves – but Sam didn't think that Rachel and Finn were like that. Rachel didn't seem…herself around Finn, or at least not like the Rachel he'd been seeing the last couple of days…

Maybe he did have something to do with Rachel's transformation. Sam wasn't sure what it might be, but it was suddenly starting to click into place – there were subtle differences between the way Rachel acted around him and the way Rachel acted around everyone else. He didn't think that was a bad thing necessarily – it wasn't like he was deliberately trying to change her or anything – but Rachel seemed to tread more lightly around Sam. She wasn't nearly as overbearing as the Rachel the rest of the glee club saw.

Or maybe it was just his mind playing tricks on him. Maybe Rachel was just maturing, and everyone was being crazy enough to think it had something to do with him. Maybe she was just getting older and growing up and getting ready for adulthood or something.

_Adulthood._ Sam really hated that word. Apart from maybe the word 'intercourse,' it was probably his least favorite word. It was just…scary. With everything he'd been through this past year, Sam didn't feel like he was in any way close to being an adult. If anything, he felt more like a kid in a teenager's body than ever. The idea of graduating and transitioning into, well, _adulthood_…well, the only word for it was 'terrifying.'

"I, um…I think you owe me an answer to my question from the other night," Rachel said, snapping him out of his fear-filled thoughts about the future…_his_ future. He couldn't help but notice that her head was leaning even further towards her right shoulder than it had been before, giving her a look of almost childlike curiosity. It kind of reminded him of Stacy.

A knot tied itself in his gut.

_Don't think about it_, Sam told himself, but it was already too late. The guilt was already beginning to sink in. All he could think about whenever he thought of or looked at Stacy now was about that one night, and her one simple question, and his one, simple yet heartbreaking answer:

"_Sammy, will you sing me a lullaby tonight?"_

"_Not tonight, Stace."_

Suddenly, Sam had an urge to end this conversation with Rachel as quickly as possible. He felt like he needed to be alone, maybe go sit and read a comic book in the boys' bathroom during first period today, or go burn some calories in the weight room in the gym…

"Okay…just not now," he said, his words coming out in a rush. Sam pulled out his geometry textbook again, with its Thor comic book hidden between the pages, and quickly slammed his locker. Brushing past Rachel's shoulder, he started for the bathroom, hoping that no one would notice if he didn't come out until second period.

Normally, a sense of pride would've come over him for choosing this over weights and reps and calories – a baby step towards recovery, as his therapist would've said – but now, all he felt was guilt for walking away from Rachel. But he just couldn't talk to her. Not right now. He wasn't completely sure why, but he just…he couldn't. He had this instinctive feeling like he just might break down if she said something, anything, asked any questions…

Rachel, feeling dumb for trying, just stood there and stared after him, her jaw hanging open just slightly. A rush of desperation came over her, and she suddenly felt like their friendship was about to slip through her fingers and like she had to do whatever she could to save it.

_He's pushing me away,_ Rachel thought, and mentally facepalmed for not seeing it sooner.

Sam wouldn't open up to her. He was _never_ going to open up to her.

_How could I have been so stupid? _she thought, suddenly feeling a rush of tears welling up in her eyes. Not only did her project feel like a complete lie, but so did their friendship.

But no matter how many times she told herself she was being stupid and it was no use, she still couldn't stop herself from wiping at her eyes and running to catch up with him.

Taking hold of his arm, Rachel began a desperate attempt to salvage his trust: "Well, um…what if we met in the library, after school?"

They both came to a dead stop in the middle of the hallway, the crowds of cheerleaders and jocks parting to go around them.

Sam wanted to just say no, and end it at that, but there was a pleading expression in Rachel's big brown puppy dog eyes that made him realize that she thought she was about to lose him as her project partner, that he was pulling away from her…and although he couldn't really argue against it, since he wasn't exactly drawing closer to her either, he felt a little pang of guilt for not noticing it sooner.

He sighed and said, "I have to go get Stevie and Stacy at 3:45."

Rachel's face fell.

"It won't take long," she said, trying to keep her voice from cracking with desperation.

Sam sighed again, then broke into a halfhearted smile. "Okay."

Rachel's whole face lit up with a huge grin. "Great! See you then."

Sam's smile only widened as he saw how genuinely happy Rachel looked. Shaking his head at both her and himself, he turned on his heel, then started to walk back towards his locker. Math class was suddenly seeming like a much better idea – and besides, he could only imagine what Rachel would have to say about it if she found out: _"_Samuel Evans, _cutting class to read comic books in the boys' bathroom? How are you expecting to get accepted into a decent college when you know that an infraction like that would show up on your permanent record?" _

The thought only made him laugh, and he was about to turn in toward his locker when he heard a voice call, "Hey!"

Sam turned around only to find Finn Hudson staring at him from across the hallway. He had the same look on his face that he'd had last year after Jesse had had his hands all over Rachel at prom….and that wasn't a good thing.

Come to think of it, Sam hadn't been that happy about it either, seeing as Rachel was supposed to be his date (well, ½ of his date) and he didn't that cocky asshole groping her while all he could do about it was look on if he didn't want to ruin the only junior prom he was ever going to have.

Sam's heart began to thud a little, blood starting to pound in his ears, as Finn drew closer, his eyes locked on Sam like a lion stalking its prey. He was charging towards him like a bull, and Sam half wanted to scamper off like a frightened rabbit, but he was supposed to be a man in times like these. He had to stand his ground.

Both his feet planted firmly on the ground, Sam watched Finn draw closer for as long as he could stand it, until only a couple feet remained between them, and he had to close his eyes, recoiling as he waited for the impact of Finn's fist into his face. He wasn't sure what he'd done exactly, but he had a couple good guesses, and guess number one was Rachel Berry.

His guess was only confirmed when Finn snapped, "Stay away from my girl; okay, Evans?"

Sam slowly opened his eyes, realizing that he wasn't going to get hit, and startened to straighten up, trying to look tall enough to be a match for Finn. He'd scuffled with him in the past, but that was when he'd had more confidence, and Sam didn't trust that he'd be able to stand up for himself with his self-esteem in the terrible condition that it was – and if puffing out his chest and pushing back his shoulders made him look tough enough to take Finn on, maybe it would be enough to convince the Jolly Green Giant that a fight was a bad, bad idea.

Remembering his role in the situation, Sam rolled his eyes and replied, "We're just friends." Defending his honor, while still managing to seem cool. _I like it. Keep up the good work, Evans._

Unluckily for him, Finn didn't seem convinced: "Leave Rachel alone." He was practically breathing fire.

On the brighter side of things, Finn didn't seem to have a fight in mind, and Sam knew getting beat up wouldn't be in his best interest, so that was good. But as Finn turned on his heel to walk away, still storming around like he ruled the whole school, something boiled up inside Sam as he realized that this was _not _the way a guy was supposed to treat his girlfriend. Finn should've trusted Rachel – and Sam could sympathize with the whole infidelity thing, because he knew how it felt to have his suspicions (and in the case of Quinn Fabray, he also knew what it felt like to be right), but that was Quinn. This was Rachel. Rachel was the sweetest, most innocent girl he'd ever met…well, aside from Brittany, but that was still something, and Rachel most definitely _was_ something – something special. And you weren't supposed to treat something special the same way you would treat any old piece of crap.

And so Sam Evans forgot his honor and his permanent record and the fact that he was probably going to get his ass kicked if he wasn't careful, and he shouted down the hallway at Finn, "KISS MY ASS, HUDSON!"

Everything that followed happened in a blur. Suddenly, Finn had grabbed Sam by the shirt, and Sam was shrinking, cowering away the way he never would've last year. But as the first punch was thrown, anger swelled up inside Sam, and with the rush of pure hatred-fueled adrenaline that followed being socked in the gut, he remembered what it was like to be an arrogant dickface like Finn Hudson and threw a right hook, _hard_, and watched with an almost self-satisfied smirk as the stupid, untrusting, full-of-himself, son-of-a-bitch,_ jerk_ stumbled backwards, a hand pressed to his cheek.

It didn't take long for their football instincts to kick in, and Sam, feeling that one punch – no matter how badly it seemed like it hurt – wasn't enough to add up to the worth of someone like Rachel, grabbed him right around the middle and took him down.

In the crowd that had gathered around the two of them, someone yelled, "AND THE QUARTERBACK GETS _SACKED_!"

The comment only seemed to fuel Finn's anger, and he began to make a grab at Sam, the two of them wrestling for dominance until Figgins, flanked by a furious Mr. Shuester and a frightened Ms. Pillsbury, pushed his way through the mob and shouted, "STOP! STOP THIS AT ONCE!"

Sam wasn't completely sure what was happening until Mr. Shue had him by the collar; he'd been too busy seeing red and thinking of ways to cause Finn Hudson pain. Mr. Shuester pulled a squirming Sam, hands still balled into fists, to the edge of the fray, deliberately keeping him as far away from Finn as he could get him.

He was so blinded by rage that he could only see bits and pieces of what was going on around him: the red and ivory of Finn's letterman jacket – God, Sam hated that jacket. Short freshmen heads in the background, jumping up to attempt to see over the horde. A shock of pink hair in the crowd.

_Quinn?_

Then, over the blood boiling and pounding in his ears and the low chant of, 'Fight, fight, fight fight,' Sam recognized Figgins' thick Indian accent and knew he was fucked:

"Samuel Evans…Finn Hudson…in my office!"


	11. Storm to Pass

Finding a Voice

11: Storm to Pass

Sam clenched the crumpled-up pink slip of paper in his fist as he made his way towards the empty classroom that detention was being held in.

He wasn't sure exactly how Finn had managed to evade punishment while he was the one stuck with the scar on his permanent record, but he did know that he didn't belong in detention. Detention was the home of two types of teenagers: people like Puck, who liked a little innocent fun sometimes but usually landed in trouble for their definition of 'fun,' and people like Quinn and her skanks, the type of people who just didn't care.

Not fitting into either of these molds, Sam knew that this was bound to be an interesting experience. He didn't doubt that he was about to get majorly hazed for being the newcomer, and teased for being the only 'good kid' in the room.

He was also positive that there would be no way to avoid Quinn in a small room like this, which would only add to his misery.

Factor in him being forced to blow off Rachel without any explanation (unless he wanted her pissed at him for kicking her boyfriend's ass, that is) and it was obvious that this was going to suck.

At the end of the hallway sat room B28, and although he never paid attention to room numbers unless he was trying to follow directions – something he had done a lot of in his first days at McKinley – he recognized the door to this classroom by the cracked glass in the windowpane.

It was an old, unused room that Sam had been led into as a trap by some of the jocks on his first day of school. It was probably the smallest classroom in the school. There were only a few desks, and probably more than half of them were covered in cobwebs. The empty teacher's desk sat in front of the dirty chalkboard at the front of the room, a thin layer of dust coated over the tabletop.

_Just as musty as I remember it,_ he thought as he carefully opened the door and peered around the corner. Sure enough, the blackboard read 'DETENTION' and a bunch of sullen-looking students sat in the chairs.

Sam thought it was amazing how cliché this scene was. He also found it interesting how everyone in the room seemed to be wearing their personality – Puck, mohawk and all, sat in the far left corner of the room, not even trying to hide the iPod headphones in his ears. He was jamming out and drumming along to the beat on the edge of the desk, and the teacher in charge at the front of the room – Ms. O'Rourke, the grumpy old English substitute for the day – didn't seem to be paying him any mind. There was some quiet goth girl he recognized from one of his classes, sitting silently and reading Dracula in the middle of the room with a half-eaten string of black licorice hanging out of her mouth. There was also some lost-looking stoner guy asleep in the front row, a tiny ribbon of drool trailing down his chin and dripping down the front of his shirt.

Quinn sat a couple seats away from Puck in the third row, the other Skanks clustered around her. Her feet were propped up on the desk, and she twirled a string of bubblegum around her finger, obviously going for the whole sexy bad girl look-thing and trying to act like something wasn't killing her inside.

Her hazel eyes locked on Sam as he finally worked up the guts to actually step inside the classroom and face his fears, and they narrowed into slits as he walked up to the bored-looking substitute-babysitter and put the pink detention slip down on the desk in front of her.

Quinn watched as Sam, a bit awkwardly, stood in the front of the room and eyed the arrangement of the desks. She figured he had already noticed the hierarchy of things – how where you sat determined what kind of person you were. And judging from the fact that the room was so small that no seat could leave him unaffiliated, she could tell that he was lost.

In this case, Sam immediately ruled off sitting anywhere near the sleepy burnout, which ruled off sitting next to the bookish loner girl, since she was sitting diagonally from him, and therefore, the only other options would be behind him or in the same row as him. Meaning, that he had to sit near Puck, but avoid being near the Skanks, seeing as Quinn Fabray was a person he would much rather avoid when possible.

Sam then took his seat in front of Puck, who gave him a friendly nod of acknowledgement when he saw him approaching. Throwing his backpack down on the floor beside him, Sam took out his biology textbook with the Avengers comic hidden inside and began to read the detailed adventures of Captain America, Thor, and their other Marvel-hero companions.

The only noise came from the not-so-quiet whisperings of Quinn and her clique. It was hard to judge which of them was the loudest, but Sam had no trouble recognizing Quinn as the quietest.

_Maybe that big-mouthed girl with the crappy make-up job...Mackenzie?_

Sam knew that everybody called her The Mack now; it was impossible not to, with all the rumors flying around school about the things (and people) the Skanks had done. But it was impossible for him to see her with a name like that, since the only way he could remember her was last year, when she'd been a pigtail-wearing Cheerio, one of his and Quinn's friends on and off the football field. She had obviously gone through something, too, since she had ended up like this, trashy and misguided…or maybe she had always been a slut. He honestly couldn't remember. He'd done his best to remove that period of his life from memory, just like the time he'd spent with Trace.

Sam snapped back into reality just in time to hear a burst of giggles, then Quinn's low murmur of, "I'll be back in a second."

A feeling of dread sank into the pit of his stomach as he heard the quiet padding of Quinn's high tops against the linoleum. He did his best to ignore her, feeling his face go hot as she put her hands on top of his desk and leaned forward.

Cautiously, he glanced up, getting a glimpse down her loose-fitting sweater at the black skull-printed top underneath before she stood up straight again and crossed her arms.

"Hey, Trouty," Quinn said. "Here to get a taste of life on the dark side?"

It didn't take much more than a second for Sam to decide that he hated the amused little smirk on her face more than she hated her attitude itself.

"More like here to accept defeat at the hands of Finn Hudson," he muttered, his eyes not lifting from his comic book.

Quinn grinned devilishly and replied, "Well, to be honest, I think Bigfoot got what was coming to him." Sam shivered as she put her hand on his shoulder and continued, "And I don't know if you know this, but I think it was reallly, really hot the way you defended Rachel."

At first, Sam had thought that Quinn was flirting with him, trying to show off to her fellow clique members, but after hearing Rachel's name, he knew she was being sarcastic.

Taking a deep breath, he mumbled, "Leave me alone, Quinn."

An edge began to creep into Quinn's voice. "And why should I? Why do you deserve anything from me?"

"Well, if I don't, then why are you talking to me?" Sam fired back.

Quinn went silent, looking down at her toes.

"If you really want the truth, I don't want you getting yourself hurt," she mumbled softly, almost hoping he wouldn't hear what she was saying.

She wasn't that lucky.

"Yeah, well, half the time, you're the person doing the hurting," Sam snapped.

"What?" Quinn said, furrowing her brow in confusion.

He took a deep breath before responding, "You just said, you don't want me to get hurt, and I know you're going to make up some kind of excuse about how you're just worried about me, you want me to work through my issues, or some kind of trite crap like that, and I know I've said this probably about a million times by now, but have you ever thought about the fact that maybe you're the reason I ended up like this in the first place?"

Quinn opened her mouth to speak, but only managed to choke out a few words: "I don't understand what you're saying."

"I got an eating disorder because I was the new guy in town, everybody hated me, and I was dating the head cheerleader," Sam replied, his words starting to empower him. He felt strong and assertive, comfortable standing up to someone for the first time in a year. "One wrong move and you would've flushed me down the toilet bowl. I had to make sure I was fit for where I stood so I wouldn't get thrown off the top of the ladder."

Quinn took a moment to process his words, and try to make sense of her own emotions, but all she got out of it was frustration – at herself, at her life, at all the wrong turns she'd taken…every mistake she'd ever made rising back up to the surface. All the old scars suddenly seemed brand-new again, shiny and pink and obvious in her eyes, on her face, her skin. The one scar on the inside of her wrist that wasn't metaphorical - the only one that hadn't yet faded and she doubted ever would - suddenly seemed to draw attention; she felt like everyone was staring at her, at it, even though no one even looked in their direction. All the pressure that had gone away since the takeover of her new identity suddenly seemed to be pressing down on her again.

Quinn tugged her sleeves down over her hands before saying with authority, "Okay, Evans; drop the analogies and here's what I get out of that – YOUR self-consciousness is suddenly MY fault."

"No," Sam said flatly. That was not what he meant, and he wasn't about to let Quinn think she was right about him.

"Then if you could kindly explain to me what the _fuck _it is you're trying to say…" she began in her iciest voice, trailing off halfway through.

"What I'm saying is that I'm not blaming you for anything. I'm just saying, have a little sympathy for other people," he replied. Pausing for a moment, he added, "And it wouldn't hurt to have a little sympathy for yourself, too."

Quinn chewed on her bottom lip, looking down at the untied laces of her beaten-up Chuck Taylors, then over at Sam's worn-through high tops with the splitting soles and the fraying tongues and the holes worn through the sides.

"I need to go," Sam said quickly, before Quinn could shoot him down again, kick him off his high horse and ride away on it . He closed up his textbook, put it back in his backpack, and stood up, throwing the strap of his bag over his shoulder.

"And where are you gonna go?" Quinn asked, her voice cutting like knives into Sam's skin. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stick straight up, prickly and alert. "Detention's not over yet; you're a dumbass if you think you're getting out of here."

Sam glanced up at the subsitute teacher, who seemed to be absorbed in the latest issue of the McKinley Muckraker (for reasons he could not fathom). "Watch me."

Not even bothering to make a discreet exit, Sam marched right over to the door with its cracked glass panel and opened it wide, preparing to slip away inconspicuously.

He could've gotten away with it, too, if Ms. O'Rourke hadn't looked up when the creaky hinge in the door gave him away.

"WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING, YOUNG MAN?" she roared, and Sam panicked.

"I, um…extracurricular. Track meet," he lied, a nervous stutter creeping into his voice. "I just remembered."

"Well, Mr. Evans, I would kindly ask you to take your seat again. As you very well know, academics should always take precedence over extracurriculars…and I'm sure your coach would not react well to my reporting that your attendance was needed here today – what do you think?"

Sam shuddered involuntarily. Had he still been on the football team, or the baseball team, or any other sports team, really, he would understand that her threat was not an empty one. The wrath of any coach who had learned that you had missed practice because you'd landed yourself in detention was, in his opinion, far worse than anything else you could ever endure from a teacher.

But, since he knew he was nothing but a big, fat liar, he managed to muster the courage to retort, "Well, personally, I think that my coach is going to kick my ass if I don't show up at that track meet…which, is exactly why I'm going now."

He started to make his way out the door again, and into the hallway, hearing Ms. O'Rourke's screams from behind him: "I WILL NOT HAVE YOU USING THAT KIND OF LANGUAGE IN A CLASSROOM, SAMUEL EVANS! And, speaking of, as you were so kind to call it, _your ass_, I expect it will be here again tomorrow after the word I plan to have with Principal Figgins about you!"

As he walked away, he distinctly heard Quinn's voice over all the yelling, sickly sweet and pretending like she actually gave a shit about him: "But, ma'am, he's not even on the track team."

It only motivated him to walk faster.

The sooner he was with Rachel, apologizing for his mistake, the better of a chance he had to fix all this.

He only hoped she hadn't heard what he had done.

* * *

><p>"Rachel!" Sam called, out of breath as he skidded to a stop in the vast uncharted territory of the McKinley High library.<p>

Frantically looking around for her, he was sure she had given up on him, when he saw a familiar dark head of hair look up from her book and offer him a broken smile.

He felt as if someone had stabbed him through the chest.

_This is my fault. I hurt her boyfriend, and then I stood her up. I'm such an asshole…_

Sam felt like kicking, punching, yelling out to no one in particular. But right now, he had no time to focus on all the things he'd done wrong. He needed to make this right.

Rachel felt her heartbeat pick up again as she made contact with a familiar set of green eyes. Seeing Sam's lopside, halfhearted smile made her want to keep going, even though she felt like her life was over right now. All the decisions weighing down on her shoulders were too much; she was too small underneath their weight.

She was sure she would already have given in, let them crush her by now, if it wasn't for him.

"Hey," Rachel said, and Sam responded with his own, "Hey."

His husky voice – deep but not too deep, unsure but still unbroken – was enough to make her pick her head up again, stop letting it droop as if she were a wilted flower, ready for the wind to carry her dead petals away.

Rachel was about to speak up, tell him what was wrong, but he spoke before she could. Taking a deep breath, Sam let loose with a seemingly endless string of unnecessary apologies: "Listen, I know I'm a total jerkhole, and I shouldn't have stood you up, and said I was going to be somewhere where I wasn't, but I got into some trouble and I had to show up at detention, and I should probably be there now, and Figgins is probably going to suspend my ass for not being where it should be, but I don't really care. I promised you I'd give you an answer to whatever question it was you asked, and I'm not breaking any more promises. And, as long as I'm being honest, if you've seen Finn lately, I know he probably looks pretty bad, 'cause I got a couple of good hits in while he was busy crushing my ass, but I take full responsibility for being barbaric and immature and whatever other big words I've learned from you that would make sense here. I'm sorry that it happened, and I'm sorry I wasn't smart enough to handle things in a different way…violence is never the answer, and all that."

Much to his confusion, Rachel only responded with the same faded smile.

"Sam," she began, "honestly, I forgive you, and please, don't refute anything I'm about to say right now, don't try to make amends…just listen. I understand completely why you weren't here on time today and it wasn't your fault…and, quite frankly, I think Finn deserves a good right hook to the face right about now…and, really, I think the only thing I actually absorbed from that speech of yours was that you were talking to me. And…I'm just really happy to hear your voice right now."

Sam still felt guilty, but he managed a smirk. "I can take care of that for you, if you want…the right hook, I mean."

Rachel smiled, but shook her head. "No, I'd say you've already given him far more than he deserves. But, I do forgive you. Finn's insolence probably deserved to be met with punishment, and while I don't agree with violence, I believe in karma, and I think Finn got what was coming to him."

Sam, again, almost smiled, but then he absorbed what she was saying: they were in love. Rachel was supposed to be mad that he had hurt her boyfriend.

Why wasn't she?

"What's wrong?" were the first words out of his mouth after coming to this conclusion.

Rachel, with a sigh, looked down at her hands folded neatly in her lap, beginning to toy with the ballerina charm on the silver bracelet around her wrist. "I, um…nothing. It's just, I have a lot on my mind right now. I have a lot on my plate, and a lot to take in…and combined with Finn, it's just…"

Sam interrupted, his voice becoming more urgent: "Rachel, _what happened_?"

Rachel stayed silent, making a futile attempt to swallow the lump in her throat. But Sam didn't care how long she tried to resist; he was going to get this out of Rachel if it was the last thing he did. If Rachel was having problems, he wasn't going to let her keep them bottled up inside; the last thing he wanted to see was for her to end up the way Quinn had - lonely and depressed, with nothing to turn to but the pair of scissors in her desk drawer.

"Finn, um," Rachel began. "We, um, got into a fight. He's considering some…_questionable_ options for his future."

"What's he considering?" he asked.

"Um…" she said, not sure how to continue without bursting into huge, ugly sobs again. Swallowing back her tears, she finally worked up the courage to say, "Finn wants to enlist in the military. As a sort of 'thank you' to his dad."

Sam opened his mouth, but he was speechless – both at the fact that Finn was brave enough to consider something like that, where every day would be a struggle to stay alive, and at the fact that there didn't seem to be words to reassure Rachel with in this situation. What was he supposed to say to her? '_Well, on the bright side, there's like a 50% chance he'll come home safely!_' No, that wasn't an option. He knew well enough that 50% would not be enough for her – nothing was ever enough when it came to the difference between life and death. The only suitable outcome would've been a 100% chance that he would stay alive, and Sam couldn't promise her something that might not happen.

Rachel continued, the quiver in her voice breaking Sam's heart with every word: "I tried to tell him he doesn't owe his dad any kind of thanks, and that he doesn't have anything to prove – that there's no more honorable way to go than dying to protect your family and your country and everyone you know – but he wouldn't listen to me. Finn's so stubborn; I should've figured he would go through with this no matter what I said. But I don't know what he's thinking. He's trying to find self-worth for himself, is what he's doing. But I don't know why knowing that he has a million choices, a million possibilities ahead of him just isn't enough for him. I don't understand why it's so impossible for him to believe that he can do something important with his life without getting himself killed."

By now, Rachel was in tears, and all Sam knew to do was to throw down his backpack, pull her to her feet, and hold her while she cried.

Rachel wanted to thank him, but she was so hurt right now that she couldn't form the words. All she could do to show her gratitude was to bury her face in his chest and let his shirt soak up all of her tears. Wrapping her arms tightly around his waist, as if she were afraid of letting go, she just cried and cried until she began to feel lightheaded, not just from dehydration but perhaps even a little from the way it felt to have his arms around her, holding her head against him and stroking her hair, quietly going, "Shh…" and trying to put all the broken pieces of Rachel back together again.

He held her for what felt like years, and once she didn't have the energy to cry anymore, she tiredly pressed her face against his chest and closed her eyes, thinking it might just all be okay if she could live the rest of forever asleep in Sam's arms. She knew she shouldn't have felt that way; that Sam was just a friend, and it was her job to be faithful and supportive towards Finn while he was busy making the difficult decisions that would define his whole life, but not only did she not have the energy to cry – she didn't have the energy to care. She had completely given herself up to her emotions, no matter what they were. Whether she was cheating or not by being so close to Sam was of no concern to her, because it felt right. And as long as it never stopped feeling like this, she would be content to stay like this forever.

Impulsively, Sam pulled away, holding Rachel's hands in his own and staring into her puffy brown eyes, bloodshot from the effort of squeezing out tears and from the exhaustion now that this tidal wave of emotions had ended.

"I have an idea," he said.

Rachel managed a tired, almost-smile. "What is it?"

"It's a surprise," Sam replied, unable to keep a gigantic grin from spreading across his face.

Taking Rachel by the hand, he began to lead her, and for once, she wasn't worried about where destiny might take her.

She trusted him.


	12. Seize the Day

Finding a Voice

12: Seize the Day

_Author's Note: So it's like midnight and I've just spent like three hours writing this for you guys...anyways, I'd like to apologize – mostly to all of you readers (if there are any of you left out there!) and sort of to myself, too – because I haven't been writing lately. There's been lots going on lately, and as much as I'd love to sit alone in my room with the door locked and write all day, I can't do that because I'm not about to drop out of school and if I stop playing softball, I'll gain like thirty pounds. However, now that softball season's over and summer's about to start, I'm expecting to have enough time to write regularly again. I am planning on continuing _Finding a Voice, _but to everyone who has been waiting patiently for the next chapter, I'm sorry and thanks for hanging in there!_

"Sam Evans, you are crazy!" Rachel laughed as Sam helped her into the laser-tag vest, grinning all the while.

Sam felt like he was in a dream – a dream in which he was his old self again, the Sam Evans who used to joke around about his mouth and flirt with girls and quote Avatar on a regular basis. Of course, if this was really just one of his dreams, then the Incredible Hulk was bound to show up any minute now and crush the whole roller rink, and he would suddenly find Thor's hammer hidden behind the claw machine, and…

_Okay,_ Sam decided abruptly. _This isn't a dream._

That decision put an even bigger grin on his face. Being here with Rachel and really, truly feeling happy for the first time in about a year was more than he had ever wished for.

And he had wished – every shooting star that came along, every time he found a lone star in the night sky that he was positive wasn't actually a planet, it was "Star light, star bright..." time. Sam had wished for the same thing every night since freshman year: to have one day free of the feeling like he wasn't good enough for anyone.

It looked like he had finally got his wish.

Rachel had never been laser tagging before, so everything was extremely, extremely unfamiliar to her. Even the roller rink atmosphere was foreign territory – Rachel Berry had never exactly been a social butterfly, so anywhere that wasn't an auditorium and had more than ten people in the room was like being in a different country where you didn't speak the language.

"You ready, Rach?" Sam said with a boyish grin, finishing tightening the straps that held the vest against Rachel's thin frame. She was small, so there had been a fair amount of resizing to do. Sam didn't mind, though; even though putting his hands on a girl would always make him blush, he kind of liked the excuse to touch Rachel. It had been awhile since he'd been this close to…well, anyone. He'd been beginning to miss real human contact.

Rachel looked up at Sam, who was already geared up. Even in the dorky laser tagging vest, he still managed to pull off the cute surfer boy look. She smiled.

"You called me Rach," she pointed out.

"Oh," Sam said bluntly. He hadn't even noticed; he'd been thinking of her as Rach for awhile now, so it had just seemed normal to him. He was sort of mad that she'd mentioned it, though, because he knew he was going to be paranoid now, wondering if that was a bad thing or if they weren't at the nicknames stage in their friendship yet or 'Oh God, did I scar her for life? Did I bring back awful memories?'

"Is that bad? Do you not want me to call you that?" he blurted, his thoughts overwhelming him. Sam braced himself for the worst.

Rachel just let out a light laugh and said, "No, I don't mind; it's just…new. But I like it."

Sam let out a small sigh of relief – one that he hoped wasn't too noticeable – and cracked a smirk. "You do?"

"Yeah," she said cheerfully. "Nobody ever gives me any nicknames…well, except for my dads, and you really don't want to hear those. They're awful."

Sam chuckled, but the smile faded when he thought of something. "Finn doesn't call you 'babe' or anything?"

Rachel shook her head. "No. I guess he's not that kind of guy."

Sam thought it would be best not to mention the time back when Finn and Quinn had still been the 'it' couple and he'd heard him call her 'baby', so he bit his lip and kept his mouth shut.

For a quick second, Rachel couldn't help but worry that she was being judged. Wanting to get over the uncomfortable feeling of it, she quickly said, "Okay, show me how this gun thing works!"

Sam couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm….and the grin got even bigger when he saw just how bad of a case she really was. All she could do was stare down at the buttons on the laser gun with big, brown eyes, looking as confused as a deer in headlights.

"Okay, so they call this thing a phaser, but it's really just a glorified NERF gun with a light on it," Sam explained, giving his standard introduction. He had been the one to introduce both Quinn and Artie to laser tagging last year – neither of which had ever heard of it before - and he'd also taken Stevie here for his birthday, so he was somewhat of an expert.

"First of all, you're holding this the wrong way." Sam gently took the gun from Rachel and flipped it right-side-up.

"Next, you'll want to know a couple things. One, the gun gets, like, thirty shots before it'll just make this noise and won't shoot anymore. You'll want to get back to your team's base when that happens, because people can still shoot you but you won't be able to defend yourself so you'll just lose a lot of points. Two, make sure you recharge when that happens. You just have to walk past the scoreboard thingy – I'll show you where it is when we're inside. Your shots will refill automatically once you do that. Three, I totally recommend whipping out any secret ninja powers you might have, because you're pretty vulnerable on your back. You can score points off three places – here, here, or here." He tapped the plastic pieces on her chest, back, and shoulders with the tip of his fingernail. "The shoulders are the hardest to get but they're worth the most points. When you're not shooting, just hold the gun in front of your chest and people won't be able to get any points off of that…and keep your back to the wall whenever you can. Never turn your back on the enemy. Questions?"

Rachel didn't seem to be paying attention; she was fiddling around with the gun. Sam smiled patiently and figured it was time to teach her how to use the thing before she somehow broke it…or managed to hurt herself (he had to admit – Rachel playing laser tag made him kind of nervous).

"To shoot, you just hold down these buttons here-" Sam deliberately placed his fingers over hers, secretly praying that his hands wouldn't start sweating. Rachel's heartbeat quickened at his touch. "-and press the trigger. And it makes a little noise like that."

Rachel looked up at him and he embarrassedly removed his hands, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. She quickly looked down at her toes, then back up again to ask a question: "How do I know if someone's shooting at me?"

"The vest will vibrate a little bit. It just sort of buzzes. It makes a lot more sense once you're in there," he explained. Rachel nodded once, then smiled.

"One more thing," she said.

"Go for it."

Rachel's grin spread all the way across her face until she could barely contain herself. "Would you be my wingman?"

It was all Sam could do to keep from laughing.

"Your wingman?" he snickered.

Rachel furrowed her brow in confusion. "Yeah…isn't that what guys call it? Someone who's 'got your back'?"

Sam shrugged. "I wouldn't know. I haven't hung out with a guy in…awhile."

Rachel gave him a concerned look and cocked her head to one side, curiosity overcoming her. "Why not?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but promptly shut it again, catching himself before he could let his guard down.

"Dunno," he mumbled, looking down at his toes.

Sometimes, Sam wanted so badly to just let it go and stop pretending to be a tough guy and break down with all of his problems. However, there was the part of him that kept reminding him that once Rachel – or anybody else – knew about his summer, she might not be there for him anymore. No matter how much he trusted her now, all that could change once she knew about how badly he'd screwed up…about his fucked-up life, and all of his issues. Sam couldn't think of why a nice girl like Rachel would want to be friends with a guy like that.

He would have no choice but to just forget it if he wanted to stay close to her.

Rachel was silent for a moment, trying to analyze the expression on his face, but Sam could be so…cryptic. He was one of the most difficult to read people she knew.

She hadn't remembered him being like this when he first moved to Lima – actually, she remembered him being the opposite. Sam had been open, and trusting…the kind of naïve, popularity-driven guy any pretty girl could easily take advantage of. And that was exactly what Quinn had done, wasn't it?

As soon as she thought of it, Rachel felt a sense of significance, like she'd had an important breakthrough in a detective case. But now wasn't the time to pry. She had more important things to say to him right now, things she needed him to know.

"You walked out on detention for me," Rachel said quietly. "Principal Figgins is going to chew your ass out…and that's if you're lucky. You might even get suspended."

"Yeah," Sam said. "So?"

Rachel sighed. He obviously didn't think of this as a big deal, but Rachel did….and she needed him to understand how much it meant to her. She wasn't used to people looking out for her.

The problem was, she had no idea how to say it.

"I, um…I just wanted to say thanks," Rachel blurted. She'd gone for the obvious approach.

Sam cracked a smile, but it quickly faded into confusion. "Why?"

"Because people don't usually think about me over themselves," Rachel explained. "I don't have a lot of good friends that would do something like that for me."

"Well, you've got me, right?" he said with a grin.

"Yeah," she replied, smiling. "I've got you, Sam."

Sam tried to smile back, but he couldn't help but notice how unsure she sounded.

_Great_, he thought. Even now, without knowing anything, she was wary of him. It made a guy wonder what could be wrong with him – did he, like, forget to put on Axe after he'd gotten out of the shower or something? Did he still smell like gym class? Could she tell he'd gotten his shirt out of the pile of dirty clothes on his floor this morning?

And then it hit him – Rachel thought she might lose him. She thought _he _would be the one to stop liking _her_.

Sam opened his mouth, about to say something to change her mind, but he was at a loss for words. He knew what he needed to say, but nothing in the dictionary could have helped him. The only thing he could do now was _show her_ how much he cared….

And being the nerd that he was, he was positive that there was no better way to do it than to help her kick some ass in laser tag.

"Ready, wingman?" Sam said jokingly, giving Rachel a playful nudge on the shoulder.

"I'm ready," Rachel said, the most determined expression he'd seen on her since that one football game last year crossing her face. "Let's do this!"

"Anxious?" he asked, wondering if that was a stupid thing to say about a game of laser tag.

Evidentally, Rachel didn't think so. "I guess I've got some butterflies," she admitted with a nervous laugh.

Sam smiled down at her, his greenish-hazel eyes connecting with her chocolate brown ones, and rubbed her shoulders reassuringly. He could feel the goosebumps popping up on the bare skin exposed by her sleeveless dress. "Don't worry; I'll cover you. I'll be like your human shield."

Rachel just stared up at him, at the cheesy grin on his face, and said bluntly, "You always wanted to be a superhero, didn't you?"

"Hell yeah," Sam answered with a hearty fist-pump.

Rachel just shook her head and laughed.

At that very moment, a voice over an intercom announced, "_The next game of Skate King laser tag is about to begin! Please line up on your respective team sides and a staff member will be here shortly for orientation._"

As soon as she heard the word orientation, Rachel thought, _I'll be the most well prepared girl out there._

She couldn't help but smile over at Sam, a warm glow filling her up when he smiled back.

* * *

><p>Both Rachel and Sam were laughing harder than they'd ever thought possible by the time the two free rounds of laser tag Sam had coupons for were used up.<p>

"I'm sorry that I'm such a klutz," Rachel laughed, her cheeks turning a little pink. She shyly tucked a lock of hair behind her ear as she slid into the passenger seat of her car (since Sam didn't have a car of his own, she let him drive).

"No, it was actually kind of hilarious watching you stumble your way through that," Sam teased. "But I freaked out when you fell and hit your head. I thought you would, like, die or something."

"Obviously, I'm not dead," Rachel said with a grin.

"I can see that," Sam replied. He smiled back at her. Rachel, again, felt that warm, fuzzy feeling set fire to her insides.

"How's your head feeling anyways?" he asked, honestly concerned but unable to keep some laughs from sneaking their way in.

"It's fine. I'm okay," Rachel answered, laughing just as hard. "You know, I think you're the best wingman I've ever had…albeit the fact that you are the _only_ wingman I've ever had."

Sam grinned, made a sweeping bow, and said, "Why thank you, m'lady...at least, I think."

Rachel smiled and replied, "You're very welcome." She giggled and leaned back in her seat, rolling her shoulders a little. "Gosh, I am so sore. I swear, I lost ten pounds just from wearing that vest."

"Well, you know, laser tag is a very physically demanding sport…how else do you think I got these rock-hard abs?" he joked.

"What abs?" Rachel said, pretending to be oblivious. "I didn't notice you had abs. Nope, not at all. Wasn't looking at those at all…_especially _not during Rocky Horror…"

"I don't think anyone was looking at my abs during Rocky Horror," Sam muttered. "Those shorts were dangerously short for a guy to wear…"

"Hey, you looked better than I would've," she joked.

Sam, tilting back in his seat, looked over at her and raised an eyebrow. "You wanna bet?"

Rachel shrugged. "It's true. My butt would've looked like a big, golden watermelon, and not in a cute way."

"You know, I think I might still have those shorts somewhere…" Sam mused, a playful smirk making its way onto his face. "We could always test that theory."

Rachel just burst out laughing.

"No, I'm good!" she managed through giggles. "Maybe some other time!"

"Well, don't underestimate the cuteness of your butt ever again or I might have to break those shorts out," Sam said teasingly, a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

Rachel raised an eyebrow at him. "You really think my butt is cute?"

Sam's face went hot. After a temporary moment of embarrassment, he managed to make eye contact with her. Her eyebrow was still cocked.

They held each other's gaze for only a couple seconds before they both exploded in laughter.

"You know, I'm really thankful for days like this," Rachel said.

It got Sam thinking.

He hadn't really been the most grateful person over the last year or so – yeah, sure he was thankful for all the things he had as far as material posessions went, because losing your house and your food and your guitar and everything you own just does that to a guy, but as far as life in general went, he was generally pretty mopey. Sam had spent the last couple of months in a depressed haze, wallowing in his pain and wondering when exactly his life was going to get better. He wasn't exactly good at appreciating the few moments of happiness in his life.

All Sam wanted to remember the next day, struggling through Statistics, was _something_. Maybe if he couldn't force himself to be happy in the hellhole that was McKinley high, where he knew he was being judged for everything he was, he could at least force himself to remember something better.

Because if he didn't seize the day and bother appreciating the time he was given, he knew what would happen: he would get back to school and completely forget this feeling, without even a trace of actual happiness left. Carpe dium, and all of that shit.

That was when he vowed to forever burn this day into his brain, and every other day for the past eight weeks or so:

Sam Evans was determined never to forget Rachel Berry, his first real friend…and the first person besides his family he thought he might not live without.

"I am, too," he said, a genuine smile crossing his face.

The twinkle in her warm brown eyes when he said that made his heart skip a beat.


	13. Dear Insanity

Finding a Voice

13: Dear Insanity

_Author's Note: School's officially out, so I'm gonna try to start updating regularly now…oh, and reviews are always appreciated! Tell your friends and shit! 3_

Despite his conscious efforts, the next day, struggling through Statistics, Sam still felt like jumping off the roof of the school...which made him realize, nothing was ever going to change. Even when he graduated this year, he wouldn't get anywhere with his life. There was a one in a million chance of him ever getting out of Lima, and maybe a one in four billion chance of him getting good enough grades to get a full ride to college.

And, on top of all that, there was a one in infinity chance of him ever outrunning his past.

Rachel however, he had no doubts of, would make it far in life. She would just have to represent the both of them in the future, doing all the things that Sam never got to do. Maybe if he was smart and saved up his money, he'd buy a plane ticket and fly to New York to watch her on Broadway. Maybe one day he'd see her belting out "Defying Gravity" onstage or something. Maybe he'd bring his kids to see her and tell them, "That girl was my best friend my senior year of high school."

But until they both graduated, he was trapped – trapped in a box with nowhere to go. Trapped in a box with nothing but his problems to think about.

That was enough to drive anybody to insanity.

* * *

><p>"I just don't get it," Rachel sighed, rolling over and flopping onto her stomach, twirling the phone cord around her index finger. In front of her on the bed was her notebook open to a blank page with the title, 'THINGS THAT COULD BE BOTHERING SAM' written at the top. "He just seemed so bright and happy yesterday. I don't know what happened."<p>

None other than Mr. Kurt Hummel was at the other end of the phone line. Kurt sat up a little straighter and said tactfully, "Rachel, there are a few…_things_ you probably need to take into consideration here."

"What's there to take into consideration?" Rachel questioned, raising her voice a little bit in defense of Sam. "I mean, you remember exactly how he was when he got here – he was so charismatic, and he charmed everybody…I mean, Kurt, I _saw that _in him again yesterday. He completely lit up; it was almost like having the old Sam back, y'know?"

Kurt took a deep breath and said, "Rachel, I get it. I really do. But Sam…Sam's clearly been having a hard time after losing his house, and, well, there are just some things that a, um…a guy knows, and-"

"Are you trying to tell me that you think Sam's gay?" she blurted, raising one eyebrow. Her pen was moving across the page in front of her quicker than she could think, writing three big letters at the top of the list: 'GAY?'

"I understand why you would be in denial," Kurt said. "I mean, Sam's everything a girl could want – handsome, charming…and he's got that mysterious, troubled side to him. But Rachel, you have a boyfriend, and it's much more important that you support Sam's choices than that you-"

"So you think Sam has a _choice_?" Rachel snapped. "And you really think I _care_ whether he's gay or not? Well, Kurt, pardon my language, but do you really think I give a flying _fuck _about his sexuality? All I care about is that something's wrong, and I intend to fix it. I intend to fix _him_."

"You can't 'fix' being gay," he replied, his voice calm and level. Kurt had experience in dealing with Rachel. "And, Rachel, I understand that this isn't something Sam really had a say in, but…look. All I'm trying to say is that if Sam is gay, we need to let him know _subtly_ that if he ever needs one of us, we're there for him."

"And, Kurt, I don't doubt your gaydar, because I must agree that your sense of perception is rather amazing, but isn't it hard to imagine that that could be _all _that's wrong with him?" Rachel retorted. "I mean, he went through such a…a _transformation_ since he moved here, and I…I have a hard time believing that it could be THAT simple of an explanation."

"Rachel, I can see that you clearly don't want to have to consider this as an option, but it is a very real possibility that Sam could be gay," Kurt told her, trying to remain gentle while subconsciously taking on a bit of a condescending air. "Lots of boys in high school deal with this. I dealt with it. Hell, I still deal with it every day. And it takes a lot of time and effort to come to terms with such a weighty realization about yourself."

"Being gay would not change his entire personality, _Kurt_," Rachel hissed, the level of intensity with which she spoke beginning to rise. She felt like she was on the verge of hysterics. "It would be something that he was meant to be and would have to come to terms with. It doesn't change who you are; it just changes _what_ you are, heterosexual or homosexual."

Kurt sighed. "Rachel, take it first hand from me. Obviously, I'm gay, and I can easily say that I was not the same person trying to accept that that I was before and that I am now. I had to figure out who I was; every high schooler goes through that, and every high schooler changes, Rachel. And, to be honest, while I've always admired your outward sense of determination, I think you might still have some figuring out to do yourself."

Rachel paused to swallow, gingerly placing her pen down beside the notebook. It wasn't that she was offended; she really felt more guilty than anything. It felt as if she was a criminal who had just been proved guilty. She wasn't fooling anyone with her 'Fake Rachel' and 'Real Rachel,' was she? Everyone could see just how ingenuine she was.

Everybody must've figured it out. Which meant that everybody must've known that nobody could trust her.

"Kurt, I'm not going to call you out on this anymore," she said, speaking very slowly and taking care to think out her words carefully before she could be taken over by anger and self-loathing and say something she might regret, "but I don't think that Sam is gay."

"Just ask him to come to a GSA meeting, Rachel," Kurt responded nonchalantly. "It's that simple. See for yourself."

And with that, and a click of a button, Kurt Hummel was gone, leaving Rachel to the battle inside her own head.

Fake Rachel didn't want to believe it. Fake Rachel always had to be right. But Real Rachel, the person who knew Sam better than she knew anyone else in her life, had a sneaking suspicion that there might just be an air of truth to Kurt's intuition.


	14. Knives and Pens

Finding a Voice

14: Knives and Pens

Rachel could already hear the whispers as she approached the Skanks' stomping grounds beneath the bleachers:

"Oh my God, what's she doing here?"

"What does she _want_?"

"Jesus Christ, someone go tell Barbra to go fuck herself with those ginormous man-hands of hers already!"

"Leave us alone, Treasure Trail…"

It wasn't that Rachel wanted to be there any more than they wanted her to be; it was just that if Rachel needed answers about Sam, there was only one person to ask that wasn't Sam himself.

Unfortunately for her, that person just happened to be Quinn Fabray.

Sam had said it himself: the two were unwillingly close, which meant that even though Quinn was definitely not the same person that she was when Sam had first moved here, she still probably had all the answers that Rachel needed. However, no matter how much Rachel missed her old friend, you couldn't pay her enough to actually _want _to hang out here. The whole grungy feel of the place, with its chain-link fence and the smell of cigarette and pot smoke lingering in the air, made her want to hide under the covers.

But Rachel didn't have a choice – she was here for Sam, and if she was going to figure him out once and for all, she was going to need to be brave.

She couldn't really blame the Skanks for the looks they were giving her; after all, it couldn't be more obvious that she didn't belong in a place like this. She lacked all the piercings, hair dye, and time spent in a tattoo parlor to hang with this crowd of girls – she was far too preppy and primped and polished to be able to blend into this crowd. In Rachel's eyes, however, that was quite alright. She would never have wanted to be mistaken for one of the Skanks, ever.

It wasn't anything personal. Rachel didn't have anything against any of them. It was just that they were from the wrong side of the tracks, and Rachel was so obviously _not_.

A couple months ago, before school had started again this fall, Rachel would have been able to say exactly the same thing about Quinn…and she probably would have agreed. After all, Quinn had been a shiny, plastic Barbie doll last year – and every year since she and Rachel stopped being friends….what with her Cheerio uniform, her bouncy blond curls, and her winning, head-cheerleader-worthy smile. Quinn had been far too fresh-faced and too, well, _pretty_ to belong around a group of girls who called themselves Skanks with pride.

But that was then. This was now. Times had clearly changed, since Quinn was now among their ranks – pink-haired instead of blond, that Ryan Seacrest tramp stamp defacing her lower back, a shiny silver ring jabbed through her nose.

Now, to anyone who hadn't known the fresh-faced, popular, _happy _edition of Quinn – Quinn Fabray, v1 – it would have been obvious that this fenced-in goth haven beneath the football stadium that Quinn had once cheered in rather than smoked in was this girl's home.

But Rachel knew better. She knew that Quinn was so much smarter than this – so much smarter than the girl who smoked all day and took lunch money from freshmen and probably disrespected her parents. Poor Judy Fabray, who had always been so nice to Rachel back when they were kids. She had made the best peanut butter and jelly sandwiches of anyone on the block, and was the only parent who always remembered that Rachel _hated _the crust left on her bread. Even her dads forgot from time to time, but Quinn's mom never did…maybe because at that point in her life, Rachel had been spending more time sleeping over at Quinn's house than she spent at her actual home.

The Fabrays had been like a second family to her, Quinn like her sister. The current state of things now, however, left Rachel wondering where the girl who had once been her sister had gone.

"Hey, Streisand; needed to hear the words 'take that microphone and shove it up your ass' one more time before you could sleep at night?" said the girl with the sloppy lipstick…what was her name? Rachel didn't know. All she knew was that this one seemed to smoke about ten times more than each of the other Skanks combined. Spending so much time watching Quinn, remembering times when they had both been happier, had left her with this sort of information filed away in her brain, ready to resurface at times like these when she might need them.

Rachel took a deep breath and replied sharply, "I'm not here to let you all verbally assault me until you get bored and decide you'd rather be robbing a liquor store; I'm here to have a word with Quinn."

There was a chorus of those immature "Ooh"s, just like the ones that sounded every time someone got called down to the principal's office in elementary school.

"Q, you better go," said the heavy-set black girl; Rachel didn't know her name either. "Rupaul's getting impatient."

"Good; maybe she'll go back to her hobbit hole where she belongs," Quinn muttered, taking a long drag of the cigarette pinched between her two fingers. Her back was turned to Rachel, but she could still tell that Quinn was smoking from the way her voice got all hoarse. Quinn wasn't brought up like these girls, taught how to puff on a cigarette practically from the moment she left her mother's womb; she was just picking up on these things now.

_Good_, Rachel couldn't help but think. _Hopefully there's still time to reverse the damage before it's too late._

"Quinn, I'm really sorry to bother you, but it's somewhat important," she said, looking down at her toes to avoid looking up at the other Skanks…but no matter where her eyes were, she could feel the heat of their stares – their glares, really – burning holes through her forehead and willing her to stop trespassing on their precious territory. "It's about Sam."

"Sam who?" snapped the last of them, the girl with the stringy auburn hair who smelled about twelve times worse than the rest of them. "You mean Trouty?"

"Aww, look, she's got a little crush!" cooed Miss Messy Makeup. "The Jewish, muppet-wearing shrimp's got a thing for Fishface Evans!"

"Shut up, Mack," Quinn snapped. "She may have 'skinned teddy bear' written all over her outfit, but she's still one step ahead of you."

Rachel couldn't believe what she had just heard – was she losing it? Had Quinn really just d_efended_ her? Of course, she was Queen Bee of the Skanks – no matter where she went, what she did, or what group she joined, it seemed that she would always be the Queen Bee – which meant that she could do whatever she wanted.

Yet still, Rachel was confused out of her mind. They hadn't been friends since the fifth grade. Too much time had passed for her to even have guessed that Quinn still possessed even a vague degree of respect for her.

"Quinn, I-" Rachel began, but Quinn interrupted:

"Look, Napoleon, if you need to talk to me, here's not the time or place to do it…so come back later, Treasure Trail."

"Quinn, I know that you might be busy, what with trying to keep your Skanks properly out of line and all, and I know that we're not really friends anymore, but I know that we have one thing in common," Rachel sighed.

"Yeah? Well, since you know so much about me, let's hear it," Quinn snorted, crossing her arms.

Rachel winced, able to tell that she was on the defensive, yet she still replied: "Sam. I mean, I know it's been a long time since you two broke up, and while you may not be interested anymore necessarily, I know that there are some lingering feelings there between you two, and…well, I know you're close to him, so I just thought maybe-"

"Maybe what?" Quinn snapped, walking towards her with a threatening air.

"Maybe you would know if Sam's gay," Rachel said, lowering her voice so the other Skanks couldn't hear. The last thing she wanted was for someone untrustworthy to hear about her mere speculations and decide to use them against him. Rachel had been bullied badly in the past, and the last thing she wanted was for Sam to get the same kind of mistreatment. She knew she wouldn't be able to live with herself if she knew she had installed the same feelings of hopelessness that she had dealt with since middle school in her only true friend.

Quinn flinched a little, not expecting something so perceptive to come from the little Barbra Streisand wannabe in front of her. Quinn hadn't thought that Rachel had been spending so much time with Sam, but clearly, they were closer than she had realized. She wasn't sure if this meant she should be jealous or if this was meant to bring them together, but that was of little importance to her now. She was more concerned with keeping Rachel off of Sam's back.

With a quick look over her shoulder, she, too, lowered her voice and replied, "If that's your question, then now is _definitely_ not the time to answer."

"Please," Rachel said, giving Quinn a desperate look.

"Why does it matter to you so much what way Trouty swings?" Quinn hissed, still speaking quietly. "You have a boyfriend, and if you're thinking of cheating on Finn, then, sorry, I can't let you hurt Sam like that."

"Do you still love Sam?" Rachel blurted. As soon as the words were out, she gasped and covered her mouth. "Oh my gosh, Quinn; I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to-"

Rachel stopped herself before she could say anything too stupid. She hadn't meant to address Quinn like that, but she couldn't help but be curious. What if she still did? Rachel got an empty feeling in her gut, although she couldn't explain why. Was this her feeling _protective _of Sam? Why would it matter to her who loved Sam and who didn't?

She couldn't explain it, but she knew she wanted two things, and both of them were answers.

Quinn drew in a sharp breath. A voice in the back of her head was telling her not to go too hard on Rachel, that she couldn't blame her for her innocent curiosity, but her fellow Skanks were watching. She had a reputation to uphold to.

_I'm sorry, Rachel._

"Look, do you actually care about Sam, or are you just here to fuck up my life any more than you already have?" she snapped.

Rachel was speechless; although she had figured she would have ended up stepping on Quinn's toes with her last question, she was unsure of what she had done to deserve to be treated like this.

"Quinn, I-"

She began to apologize, but Quinn cut her off: "Look, Treasure Trail – I know that in that little 'glee club' of yours, you've got everyone wrapped around your fucking finger, but on my turf, nobody talks to me like they're any better than I am, got it?"

Rachel felt like curling up in a ball and whimpering, quite frankly; this was the worst she had ever seen Quinn, even worse than back when she was Queen of McKinley High and _she _had been the one with the entire student body eating from the palm of her hand. However, she knew she had to at least try to stand up for herself as best as she could manage.

All Rachel could think of to say was, "The glee club is your home, Quinn. Don't you ever miss us, at least a little bit?"

The tiny, sheepish voice of her old self in the back of Quinn's head began to fight for dominance, but once again, lost to her new persona, a bitch so cold that she would have even been a stranger to Pregnant Quinn two years ago.

This was not the girl that Quinn had imagined being when she started high school. Freshman Quinn Fabray had had peppy enthusiasm and a constant bounce in her step. She didn't think about the fact that she'd left behind the best friend she'd ever had to get to the top, and she would _never _have even considered taking a cigarette, because she knew what Coach Sylvester's policy on the cheer squad had been.

"Why would I miss being a part of a group devoted entirely to worshipping you?" Quinn said, her voice cold and distant. "Do you not see that that entire club is groveling at your feet, day and night? The girls begging you, please, give them one of your solos, if you could be so kind; the guys hoping they'll make it out alive today and that they won't have to keep their girlfriends from killing anybody. Do you not understand that the constant fighting – every time somebody's made a lunge at someone else in glee club, it's been for you?"

"First of all, Quinn, Santana Lopez is the only person who has ever lunged for me in glee club, and you and I both know how she is, and secondly, most of the fighting has, quite frankly, been between us and the football team," Rachel said. "In case you don't remember, the glee club is a _family_. We can't be fighting amongst ourselves because we have to stick together or we'll be eaten for breakfast. We have to protect and support each other if we want to get anywhere. Glee club has always been about _support_."

"Supporting you, you mean?" Quinn scoffed. "Thanks, but no thanks. Why do you think I left that hellhole of a choir room?"

"Honestly? I think you left because you were scared," Rachel admitted. "A family situation is unlike anything you've ever known, Quinn – trust me, we may not be the closest of friends anymore, but I remember how things were. I know you, Quinn. You're terrified unless you feel on top of everything, and if you have to share your power, you don't fare so well….and that's because you don't trust people, Quinn."

"Rachel, what are you_ really_ doing here?" Quinn hissed. "Just…get out!"

"Fine," she said. "That's fair enough. I just hope that someday, when you're looking back on your high school career, you realize that lots of people cared about you, Quinn. And I hope you can be proud of the way you treated them."

Feeling tears start to well up in her eyes, Rachel turned on her heel and began to walk away, fresh air clearing her nostrils of secondhand smoke. The painful throb in her head from the smell of drugs dulled down to a dizzying ache, and she could finally breathe again.

The dull pain in her heart, however – unlike her headache – was unchanged. Rachel still felt sympathy for Quinn Fabray, no matter how cruelly Quinn wanted to treat her. Words hurt more than anything, yes, but Rachel hoped that what s_he_ had said had helped Quinn more than what Quinn had said had brought Rachel down.

Rachel walked all the way back to school, but instead of returning to classes (she'd wasted an entire lunch period on Quinn), she simply walked to her car, crawled into the driver's seat, and sat, staring blankly at the brick school wall ahead of her.

That brick wall was her life – unchanging, the same old song since the sixth grade.

When Rachel had been asked to help Sam Evans find his voice again, she had hoped that maybe he could finally be the one to knock down the obstacle preventing her from leading a normal life…but he had put up thicker walls than Rachel had, and now, she was only concerned with helping him.

But Rachel was stuck. Quinn had no answers for her – at least, none that she would share – meaning that Rachel and Sam were both stuck. Their lives would both remain unchanging, unless they chose to do something about it.

What Rachel had chosen to do to move her life along again was to fix Sam…but the task was proving much more difficult than she had anticipated.

So until Rachel managed to find out what was wrong with him, the days would blur into weeks which would blur into months, and suddenly, senior year would be over and her life would still be the same old song, the same old story, over and over and over again.


	15. Hold On

Finding a Voice

15: Hold On

With the newly-formed GSA by order of senior class president Kurt Hummel, painful reminders of Sam's summer were everywhere. It was like someone had driven a knife through his ribs awhile ago, and the pain had subsided to just a dull ache – but then, every once in awhile, when he saw one of the rainbow-emblazoned posters or a membership pin on somebody's shirt or backpack, someone twisted the knife ever so slightly so that the hurting was freshly present in his mind.

That's how he felt today, during last period, when Kurt's voice came loud and clear over the intercom: _"Greetings, fellow classmates of McKinley High – this is senior class president and president of the McKinley Gay-Straight Alliance, Kurt Hummel, here to remind you all that there will be a GSA meeting after school today in Room205 and that it is open to all, so be sure to write it down! Thank you and hope to see you there – again, this has been President Kurt Hummel for equality of sexual orientations in McKinley High! Have a great afternoon."_

_Knife, _he thought, gasping quietly as the familiar stabbing pain resurfaced in his ribcage.

Sam spent the rest of class staring at the clock and fighting back the flood of memories: the condescending tone of Trace's voice, the feel of the puckered scars along his wrists and hipbones, the way he'd treated Sam like he was fragile and any sentence that wasn't carefully thought-out first might hurt him. It hadn't been an inaccurate assessment, but he didn't like that Trace had caught on to it. He didn't like when people were right about him.

Like Rachel.

The way Rachel seemed to have him so figured out – probably from studying his expressions countless times and over-analyzing his responses so frequently – made him nervous…after all, his personality was only a step away from his past. One more step in the right direction and Rachel would know everything. Sam trusted her, but he couldn't help but feel like once Rachel knew, everybody would know. It was all he'd been hearing about her for the past year – that she was a big-mouthed, self-possessed diva who would spill anybody's secret if it got them out of her way.

So many people had said it, but Sam had never understood it. He'd never seen her like that – not even when he hadn't known her nearly as well as he did now. Even on first impression, he wouldn't have pinned her for that type. She'd always seemed innocent and childlike to him…maybe it was the clothes, but even the way she talked reminded him of a little girl, starry-eyed and naïve.

Naïveté was something Sam knew well. He'd been called naïve his whole life, and he knew it was true – he believed everything he was told, good or bad. Compliments had always brightened his spirits, no matter how falsely-delivered, and insults had always been true, no matter how spiteful and inaccurate they were.

Maybe that's why he felt connected to Rachel – they both believed everything they'd been told, and they'd both obviously been told a wide range of things, good and bad. But he wanted to believe that it was something more than that – like it was fate or destiny or something he knew he was stupid to believe in but couldn't help but hope existed. Like they were always meant to be friends, or whatever it was that they were.

Thinking of Rachel eased the pain a bit, somehow, and before he knew it, visions of Trace had morphed into visions of her: the bright, doe-eyed look she got when she was happy, the way it felt to hug her, his six-foot tall body engulfing her petite frame, all the notes written in loopy cursive that she'd taken about him.

And then it was Trace again, black-haired and begging for forgiveness after he had seduced Sam.

Rachel, attempting to work the laser tag phaser.

Trace with a rare, almost-genuine smile on his face.

Rachel.

Trace.

Rachel.

Trace.

Rachel.

_Rachel Barbra Berry…hmm…Rachel Barbra Evans…_

_Rachel Evans._

_Trace Evans._

By the time the bell had rang, dismissing him from this torture, Sam's head hurt and he could barely remember anything the teacher had said about whatever war she'd been lecturing them on. All he could think of were Rachel and Trace, both of their names fighting for dominance in his thoughts.

_Trace Evans._

_Rachel Evans._

_Rachel Berry._

_Rachel Barbra Berry…_

And just like that, Rachel had won. A smile broke through on Sam's face, and, as if on cue, the small Jewish brunette was in front of him, the throb in his head completely erased…

Until she handed him a flyer with rainbow-colored words in a giant font, screaming at him to join the McKinley High GSA. That was when the stabbing pain returned.

"What's this?" he managed to choke out, swallowing back the lump in his throat.

Rachel started to smile, but it faded quickly and was tainted with guilt. She could tell that this was clearly painful for him – almost as painful as it was for her to watch her speculations coming true.

Quinn's words from the day before rang in her head: _"Why does it matter to you so much what way Trouty swings?_ _You have a boyfriend, and if you're thinking of cheating on Finn…"_

Rachel stopped herself there. She was _not_ going to think about hurting Finn again. Rachel had been that person in the past – been the jealous lover who sought revenge on every rumor she heard about her boyfriend – but it had produced the opposite result of what she had wanted. And if she were to cheat on Finn…

Again, she stopped herself. _You are not going to cheat on Finn with Sam. You love love Finn._

Rachel had found herself thinking these same thoughts with increasing frequency over the last day or so, ever since Quinn and the Skanks had accused her of feeling something more for Sam. Every once in awhile, when they were together, he would look at her and her heart would skip a beat, and Rachel had always told herself, _You're just friends, Rachel. Relax. You're going out with Finn later, remember?_

And it had always worked. But now, every time she thought about Finn, she found herself thinking about Sam, and then Finn, and back and forth between the two until she couldn't stand it anymore and felt like throwing herself in the middle of a boxing ring until she was _K.O. _and didn't have to deal with the madness in her head.

She knew that what Quinn had said was true – she had no reason to care if Sam was gay or not. Kurt was gay, and she had two gay dads, so she was in no way intolerant of homosexuality…and Sam was not her boyfriend. Rachel had a boyfriend, but it wasn't him. That was another thing she'd had to remind herself of a lot lately – Sam wasn't hers. He was her friend, but that was all. She had no claim on him.

Yet she couldn't help but think back to when she'd seen him today, arguing with Quinn….couldn't help but think back to the familiar pang of jealousy.

Rachel's chest tightened until she felt like she couldn't breathe.

"A GSA flyer," she gasped, struggling for air through her collision of feelings.

"Yeah, I can see that…" he mumbled, looking down at the ground.

Rachel looked at him – well, she was already looking at him, but she _really _looked at him this time, staring straight into his gray-green eyes until it all became evident to him, all the hurt and the guilt that she felt should have been so much more obvious to her before.

She took a deep breath, regaining her composure, and explained in a diplomatic voice, "I don't know if you heard the announcement or not, but we have a meeting today, and I'd really love it if you came." As an afterthought, she added, "And I'm sure Kurt would, too."

Rachel wasn't sure if that was true or not – after all, Kurt had seemed a little annoyed that she didn't just believe in his gaydar in the first place – but she hoped that the reinforcement would help. She knew they weren't the best of friends, but she did know that Sam had a bit of a soft spot for Kurt after standing up to Karofsky for him. That much was obvious from the way he'd carried himself around afterwards, flaunting his swollen black eye with pride and drinking in the kind words about his leadership qualities.

"I, um…I can't," Sam lied, biting down on his lip. "I have to pick Stevie and Stacy up from school at 3:15."

"It won't go past 3:00," Rachel said, completely forgetting what his denial meant for a moment and really, truly just _wanting_ him there with her.

Sam started to say something – even considered saying 'yes' for a brief second – but shook his head as his common sense took over. "No, Rachel….sorry."

Rachel looked up at him, her eyes pleading for him not to walk away, but Sam was ready to turn on his heel and go, running away from it all.

"Sam, I really want you there," she said quietly. Flushing a little, she added more loudly, "And, you know, of course, it'll be fun; we've got snacks, and you'll get to be part of a big decision we have to make today. Kurt's got this great idea and-"

Sam cut her off, his temper getting the best of him: "Dammit, Rachel; I'm not gay! Okay?"

He immediately turned bright red, his troubled expression melting away into guilt. Wide-eyed and hating himself, he couldn't keep himself from watching as Rachel's eyes began to well up with tears.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice cracking. Sam's heart tore itself in half.

Rachel didn't know why she felt so hurt…but she was completely sure now that even if he wasn't gay, there was something there; something about his sexuality was hurting him. Maybe it was the idea of Sam hurting so badly that did it.

"Wait, Rachel; stop…I'm sorry…oh my God, Rachel…" Sam began to stammer an apology, not sure what to say but wanting to fix this, erase everything he'd just said and done, but Rachel had already turned away, giving up, and began to walk down the hallway, hanging her head in shame as the tears streamed down her face.

Sam knew she was probably going to Finn right now, and the idea of him comforting her before Sam had already been able to apologize, properly, was too much to bear. He felt a mixture of emotions swell up inside of him – anger, jealousy, guilt, nostalgia - but all he could translate was the sickening anger. Wherever Finn Hudson was, Sam hoped he was hurting – that he would get hit by a bus, or mauled by a grizzly bear, or struck by lightning; he didn't even care how as long as it was just as painful as what he was feeling right now. He didn't even want Finn to die; no, that wouldn't have given him enough time to experience it all, for the pain to burn itself into his memory. More than anything, Sam just wanted Finn to understand, and not to tell Rachel what a horrible person he was or that he didn't deserve her…

Because even if it was true – and Sam knew it was – he didn't want to believe it.

Crumpling the flyer in his hand, he held it in his fist, not having the strength to throw it away.


	16. Broken Statues

Finding a Voice

16: Broken Statues

_Most of us here at McKinley High probably can't imagine leaving Lima for anything – most of us were born and raised here in this small, close-knit town, and most of our families have firmly planted their roots here. We've grown up together, we've lived our whole lives going to school with the same people, and most of all, who we are is firmly established in the people we choose to surround ourselves with._

_Like every other high school in the country, William McKinley High School undoubtedly has its cliques – from the popular jocks and cheerleaders that rule the school to McKinley's own rising stars in the New Directions glee club, everyone knows their place. But where do you place a newcomer – a disturbance in the social hierarchy we've grown up with since we were small?_

_As one-year-only veteran of McKinley High Sam Evans could tell you, we don't. We don't sort the new kids – we make them fend for themselves. If they want to come to Lima and throw the order of the entire school into chaos, why should we show them any kindness? Surely they don't deserve our respect. _

_This has always been the way of things in our small town. We like everything to be like the things that go on here – unchanging. The word 'new' isn't in our vocabulary. I suppose the question is, is this really fair to the perfectly normal people who come here?_

In a frustrated haze, Rachel Berry furiously held down the 'backspace' button on her keyboard until all of the meaningless words on the screen in front of her disappeared.

This was not the article she wanted to write. This was not the prizewinning expose she'd dreamed of. This was going to get her absolutely nowhere.

What she'd wanted to show everybody was what really went on under the surface of their school's seemingly-perfect hierarchy. She'd wanted everyone to know how difficult life was for the students at the bottom of the food chain – how flawed the system really was underneath the smiling and happy exterior.

But she'd wanted to do it by showing everyone the real Sam – hoping that a real person's real personality would be enough to move the entire student body into wanting to _change_, for the better.

It was hard for Rachel to accept, but she'd realized over the past week or so that she hadn't gotten anywhere. She didn't know a thing about Sam. No matter how she'd felt before realizing this, he was the same stranger he'd been for the past year: just another face in the choir room while she was singing her solos and stealing the show.

She could already feel her eyes watering. Rachel hated that about herself – or, rather, about the person she'd become. She wished that she knew each and every person in that choir room just as personally as she knew Finn or Kurt or Mercedes, but truth was, she didn't. She hadn't even cared.

At least, that was what she had told herself: _Rachel Berry, don't you _dare_ snap out of character – you are a STAR. Don't go getting all soft for these people. In the end, they are simply competitors. You don't want to get attached or it'll hurt when you knock them down._

Rachel had learned a lot since then – since her sophomore year when the glee club had reformed with her favorite teacher Mr. Shuester as the head. One thing she'd learned was that knocking people down hurt whether you knew anything about them or not. It always hurt. There was no way around that.

Sighing, Rachel let herself slip out of the skin she had created for herself and let her mind drift back to Real Rachel's consciousness. She let herself wonder: wonder what Tina's middle name might be, what Rory's happiest memory was…she hadn't even remembered _introducing herself_ when he had come here, she realized, even though she knew how hard it was to come to a new place. She'd been a newcomer, after all, in the first grade, and while it may have been a long time ago, the feelings were the same regardless of her age….which meant that the surge of happiness she'd felt when Quinn had walked up to her and said, "_Hi, I'm Quinn…I'm playing Barbies. You can be Ken if you want," _would be the same for him now, had she simply said, "_Hi, I'm Rachel; welcome to McKinley High! I'd love to show you around. Maybe we could sing a few showtunes while we're at it._"

Suddenly, she'd forgotten all about writing and was simply focused on her mistakes – and how she wanted so badly to fix them.

For example, the other girls had asked for solos so many times and all Rachel had done was complain about how her talent was being wasted. Real Rachel regretted that, and she let the feeling consume her until it was all she knew anymore: regret. Wishing she was a better person – nicer to the people who had always been there for her.

Sam. Another one of her regrets. She'd seen him in the cafeteria, watching them while they sang "Empire State of Mind" and danced on tables. He'd been tapping his foot along to the beat and staring…right at her, now that she thought about it. She wondered if he remembered that – remembered what he'd been thinking. Rachel knew what she'd been thinking: she needed to get that boy in the glee club. But not for the right reasons. She and Finn had both known that they needed fresh meat, but why did they need it? They'd wanted to _win_….and in the end, it hadn't made a difference because they'd been selfish and let their supposed love for each other be the driving motion for their actions. They'd ruined things for everyone else by getting too caught up in the moment – the music – and kissing onstage at Nationals…in the end, costing them all the competition.

Sometimes Rachel wondered if that was all that moment had been: a song. A song they both felt deeply, maybe even if it had nothing to do with each other – maybe Rachel had channeled her feelings toward her mother, who she'd always needed and had never been there, into that song. Maybe Finn had been singing about his long-passed father and not about Rachel. Maybe they were just there: the only outlet they had for each others' love and longing.

_Love_. It was on Rachel's mind a lot lately. Did she really love Finn?

She knew she felt lost without him, but maybe that was Fake Rachel talking. Maybe he was just another part of the role she had stepped into. She'd lived so separate from who she really was for so long that she didn't even know how to ask herself what she really wanted anymore.

And, of course, everyone in her life was incredibly unhelpful. The only advice her dads had had for her was, "Listen to your heart, pumpkin. It'll all be clear soon enough."

How was she supposed to listen to her heart when she had only just realized that it was talking? It seemed to be speaking a different language. She was so out of tune with who she really was that she probably wouldn't even be able to tell someone what her favorite song was.

No, that was a lie. It was _Don't Rain On My Parade_, of course – the song she'd grown up with.

Or was it?

Rachel thought for a long moment. That song was about pride in oneself and unparallelled _happiness_. Those feelings were foreign to her, to be honest.

And if Rachel didn't even know her own favorite song…

Well, it was obvious now: she didn't know a thing about who she was.

Here she was, so close to becoming an adult, and she couldn't even answer a simple question.

The last bell of the day rang, interrupting her thoughts, and quickly, Rachel gathered her things, logged off the computer, and hightailed it out of the library and to the choir room for glee club. She had so many things on her mind that she didn't know how she would survive glee when she decided:

Maybe it's time for a test run.

Maybe she should try letting down her guard, just for a day.

Maybe she should try being who she was around Sam. Just for today.

Because she'd realized, the only time she was ever herself was with him. She smiled only at things she really wanted to smile for, like the sound of his laughter or the twinkle in his gray-green eyes – not at every little thing, wanting to win people over. She was happy and funny and genuine, and even cracked jokes; Fake Rachel was always so _serious_. She didn't get offended if he teased her, the way she did if people took a friendly jab at her in glee, and might even poke fun at herself. She didn't let things get to her head, but let herself overthink things just a bit. Being ambitious and analytical was one part of Fake Rachel that had stayed true to herself.

Determined but a little afraid, Rachel marched right up to the choir room door and barged in. She could see the way everyone flinched, thinking it might have been one of her bad days, that they'd better watch out…but when she smiled – a real, rare smile, not a wide commercial-worthy grin that showed off just a few too many teeth…one that seemed to surprise everyone.

"Hi, guys," she said. "Is Mr. Shue here yet?"

The only person who wasn't shocked enough to answer was Sam.

"No," he said, shaking his head.

"Oh, okay. So I haven't missed anything then."

She smiled again, and it was infectious – soon, the New Directions' captain had everyone in the room grinning as she sat down in the only empty seat next to Sam…her true best friend, no offense to Kurt.

"Well, little Jewish munchkin, it seems like we might have missed something while you were off dancing around a dead witch and a flying house," Santana said, her usual snarky wit coming into play. Her arms crossed, Rachel could tell from the way her eyes scanned over her that Santana was judging her – playing the "What's-wrong-with-this-picture?" game and wondering where the bitchy Rachel Berry had gone. "Seriously, what happened to you? One second you're walking all over everybody, taking all the solos, and now you're all, 'Hi, guys! Check out how HAPPY I am today!' Really, where's the tye dye and the cotton candy, Girl Scout Berry?"

Even Rachel laughed at Santana's impression of her, which only seemed to make the Latina more confused. Sam had a knowing smile on his face, though, and Rachel loved it. She couldn't _help_ but love that he was the only person who knew the real her.

On her other side, Mercedes reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. "It's good to have you back, Rach. You've been so quiet lately."

"I've been busy. I've been doing a journalism project," she explained, exchanging meaningful glances with Sam, whose eyes were twinkling in that way she loved. Tearing her eyes away, she looked back at Mercedes and continued, "But enough about me. I talk way too much about me. Tell me about that handsome linebacker of yours. I haven't heard enough about him."

With a starry look in her eye and a smile on her face, Mercedes began to talk about her new boyfriend – Shane, his name was – and for once, Rachel actually _listened_…well, she always listened, but she actually absorbed it all this time. His name was Shane Tinsley and he was a senior, like them, going to Ohio State in the fall on a football scholarship – one of the lucky ones to get out of this cow town. He was very emotional and a real romantic, from the sounds of it, and Rachel could say she was honestly happy for them. A twinge of jealousy crept into the back of her consciousness, though, when she realized that she and Finn were not nearly this happy. They weren't really happy at all, come to think of it.

She was about to dwell on this – overthink it the way only Rachel could – when Mercedes said, "What about you and Finn? How have you guys been lately?"

Rachel considered this. How _had_ they been? Before she could answer, Finn was talking for her: "Things are great. More than great…hey, we should really go on a double-date sometime with you and Shane. That would be cool. What do you think, Rach?"

"I don't know," she sighed, saying it so quietly that she was almost positive that he wouldn't here. Speaking up, she said to Finn with one of her fake smiles, "Sure. Sounds like a great idea. Just text me whenever you two are free, Mercedes, and we'll set something up."

Rachel felt something slide across her back, sending shivers down her spine, when she realized it was Sam's arm, looped around the back of her chair. Moving. Away from her. He was pulling his arm away.

Glancing over at him, she could easily read the disappointment in his face. Fake Rachel was back and he knew it. Rachel could see that he didn't like it. She didn't, either.

_I'm sorry._ She tried to communicate this apology with just her eyes, not wanting to say it out loud because she feared that everyone would see how vulnerable she was. Sam tore his eyes away, staring down at the ground. That was when she had realized that Real Sam had come out, too. Sam had acts, just like her, and his arm around her…the smile in his eyes when she was actually being herself…that wasn't one of them. It was real.

Her experiment had actually gone well. Everyone had reacted well to Real Rachel…

Except for Finn. He had clearly hoped for the girl who was happy in their relationship, who let him rule her entire life and did whatever he said.

Before she could think about it too much, in walked Mr. Shuester, announcing his arrival and saying, "Let's get down to business! Regionals is in two weeks and we need to step it up! Let's talk solos, guys!"

First mention of a competition – solos - and Fake Rachel's claws were out. Real Rachel…she didn't even have claws.

One thing she did know about herself, though, was that hearing Sam's low sigh and his obvious frustration with himself (he hadn't made any progress with his voice and here Mr. Shue was, saying they needed to bring out their A-game) nearly broke her heart.

Something else about it scared her, though: there would be no solo for Sam Evans in their Regionals number this year…and Mr. Shuester would likely blame her.

Rachel would have liked for him to sing this year…to sing with her, preferably. They didn't do enough of that: singing together.

Nudging his arm, Rachel leaned over and whispered, "Sam, do a duet with me."

Without even thinking, Sam moved in and whispered back, "Okay."

His breath was hot on Rachel's ear, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand straight up. Something about the way his voice sounded, all low and husky like that, gave her chills.

That was new – chills for Sam Evans.


	17. Trophy Wives

Finding a Voice

17: Trophy Wives

_Author's Note: Sorry! Bit of a hasty chapter; I didn't want to keep what few of you readers there are left hanging. Just wanted to say thanks for sticking with FaV like the cool people you are, and reviews are always appreciated! c: _

He hadn't even thought about what he was saying before it was too late.

'Sing with me,' Rachel had said, and _of course_ he had agreed…not wanting to disappoint her, as always. Sam wasn't big on disappointing people, Rachel especially; she had the worst disappointed face, the kind that made you feel like you deserved to curl up in a corner and cry until you died for making her feel that way.

But there was one teeny, tiny detail that he had been forgetting: he still couldn't sing.

And he was constantly trying, too, because it hurt – losing the one thing that had actually made him feel special. Besides being good at football – which he wasn't allowed to play anymore anyways – singing was his only talent…but now, all he could do was choke every time he opened his mouth. Maybe he just didn't have anything to say anymore. Maybe now he was too scarred and broken to want to send out a message, because wasn't that all singing was? A message?

But what was going to hurt more than admitting to himself that he still couldn't sing was admitting it to Rachel – because he'd given her hope. That one word, 'Okay,' had probably made her assume so much, and he couldn't take it. He had to fix it _now_, before it could escalate into a heartbreaking scenario: with her making plans, asking him when he was available and daydreaming about what their voices would sound like together and looking up which music store carried this or that song in his key.

The thought of it was literally painful: the thought of her disappointment. And it would be much, much more than just a little sting when he had to disappoint her – it would open up a wound.

Through the rest of glee club, all he could do was sit there and wallow in his own nervousness: what to say, how to phrase it, imagining every terrible way in which she could react….

_Oh, Sam; are you sure you can't sing?_

_Still?_

_Sam, why wouldn't you just tell me the truth?_

_Maybe you should try thinking before you speak next time._

"Okay, that's it for today guys! You should all feel really proud of yourselves, because what you're doing is great. You sound awesome. Now go home and get some rest, okay?"

As Mr. Shue's voice broke him out of his thoughts, Sam couldn't help but think what a lie it all was. He had nothing to be proud of. Sometimes it felt like all of Will's empty encouragements were all part of a greater plan – a plan to guilt Sam into singing again…not that it would really matter what his voice sounded like anyways. It wasn't as if he would suddenly remember how to make the song come out and there would be a big celebration – "Yippee, a solo for Sam!"

Like that was ever going to happen. Maybe a few people would clap. Rachel definitely would. But Mr. Shuester…he didn't have enough appreciation for anyone whose names didn't start with 'R' or 'F.'

Sam at least understood what his favoritism toward Rachel was all about. Rachel had a great voice and there was no better way in the world to feel better about yourself than to watch her smile. Yet again, Mr. Shue didn't know what Rachel looked like happy. Sam had seen it. He'd used to think that the bright, plastic, Overachiever-Barbie smile that crossed her face when it was announced, "Another solo for Rachel!" was happiness, but it wasn't.

Happy was Rachel laughing at one of his jokes, or smiling at the ground after playfully punching his arm at a comment about Finn, saying, "That's not nice," but looking as if she kind of agreed with him. Happy was when she'd beamed down at Stacy after his sister had showed off her new pink-colored fingernails that Sam's mom had done the night before for her friend's birthday party.

Happy was not what she was going to be when Sam told her the truth: there was no way that they would ever be able to sing together; not anytime soon.

He dreaded breaking the bad news, but it would hurt more living the rest of the day knowing that he'd lied. Sam was good at lying by now; he'd gotten to a point where it was necessary.

But no matter how convincing he'd become, he hated it. He hated himself for needing to lie about where he was or what he'd been doing over the summer – for who he was, or at least for who he had been.

He still wasn't eating much, but he at least felt better about himself. He didn't feel like the same guy at all, even if the low self-esteem and anorexic tendencies were there. He finally felt like he was getting kind of better.

If Rachel knew – which she never would; he couldn't scare her like that – Sam knew she would be proud of him. His mom would be proud, too…and if Stevie and Stacy were old enough to understand, so would they.

And sometimes, it was just nice to know that someone cared about you…not like his dad, who Sam was too scared to say much more than a, "My day was fine; how was yours?" to at their makeshift dinner table. Not like Quinn, who faked interest just to make him feel special and then shot him down so that she would rise up and he would fall. Not like Mr. Shuester, who pretended to love everybody and know that they were all special inside.

Sam knew the truth: if everybody's special, then no one is.

That afternoon, when glee club let out, Sam was a man on a mission. He just wanted to clear things up with Rachel, right now, tell her that he was sorry, he hadn't thought, and forget about this whole thing for awhile. Give her some room to breathe and consider what had happened and, hopefully, come to the conclusion that hating him for disappointing her was a waste of time.

But Rachel Berry was nowhere to be found.

* * *

><p>The reason why Sam Evans could not find Rachel Berry that afternoon was because Finn Hudson, too, was a man on a mission…a very different sort of mission, however; a mission that had nothing to do with letting Rachel go and giving her space. No, this mission had to do with pulling her closer and wrapping her around his finger so that she would forever be his. Sam Evans would never be able to get in the way ever again after this. Rachel would be <em>his<em>. No questions asked – the whole school would know it.

And no one, not even Sam, would challenge it. Not with this ring on her finger.

Finn was a pretty confident guy, so he had no problem convincing himself that by the end of the day today, it would be…or it would at least be on a chain, around her neck, or in a drawer in her dresser, waiting like him for the day when Rachel would walk down that aisle and say, "I do."

"I do," seemed like the quick fix to all of their relationship's problems – even the ones he didn't know existed; maybe even the ones he was only imagining. Two words and there would be no jealousy, no cheating, no sneaking away to be with some other guy who Finn didn't really see the appeal in.

The funny thing about the answer to every time he'd spent praying to Grilled Cheezus for a solution was that Finn had imagined all of these problems, avoiding the real problem in the root of their relationship.

"Meet me in the auditorium," Finn whispered in Rachel's ear, brushing past her as glee club ended and throwing his sheet music in the recycling bin. He didn't need it. He was that good….or, at least, the high brought on by his sudden surge of self-assurance had him convinced that he was that good.

All Rachel could do was stare after him and wonder whether she should meet him there or not, or whether there were better things for her to be doing right now.

There were definitely better things, she decided, and she knew that was a problem. But for the time being, she didn't care about those better things or those problems. She was too curious to do anything other than start the long walk down the empty, locker-lined hallways of McKinley High to the auditorium.

* * *

><p>Everything was still in the McKinley High auditorium, and the stage dark.<p>

The audience, however, was lit, so that Rachel could see the red rose petals glaring at her against the black floors and the dark mahogany wood of the panels that covered the stage.

Assuming that this was the intention, Rachel followed the petals like Dorothy following the yellow brick road, almost feeling as if the mood called for skipping and singing, "We're Off to See the Wizard." If not for the fact that this seemed to be a sober, romantic occasion, she probably would have enjoyed it.

Sam surely would have skipped with her had he been here, Rachel thought with a smile, the mere realization enough to put a bounce in her step. Anticipation was slowly flooding in through her nostrils, as if it were a contaminant in the air she breathed. The excitement of it all soon consumed her as she followed the trail of red up the still-fairly-new wheelchair ramp and onto the stage, which was pitch black.

As if on cue, the lights in the audience flickered off as soon as she stepped center stage, and on turned the lights onstage. Rachel saw nothing of interest, but spotted more rose petals out of the corner of her eye. Turning, she finally noticed Finn, who was holding a dozen roses and…

Her breath caught in her throat.

He was down on one knee.

And – oh, God...ohGodohGodohGod.

Was that a ring in his hand?


	18. King For a Day

Finding a Voice

18: King For a Day

Rachel Berry was taking a risk.

Venturing under the bleachers for a second time in little more than a week was dangerous business for a girl like her – the happy-go-lucky prepster with the plaid skirts and the vegan muppet-skin sweaters. Everything about her screamed unbelonging, not that it didn't always. There didn't seem to be a place for Rachel in this world, or at least not in high school.

At least, that's what she told herself. If not for Quinn Fabray, she could have been a cheerleader. But without her friend's support, she simply didn't have the strength to go on. Every lift to the top of the pyramid would remind her of her. It would just hurt too much…and besides, Coach Sylvester and Head Cheerleader Santana Lopez would never take her on the team. As mentioned before, she didn't belong anywhere – and certainly not with the cheerleaders.

Certainly,_ definitely_ not here. Rachel Berry didn't even own a piece of black clothing – she didn't even know how to put _eyeliner _on. That was something she'd always gotten help on during dance recitals and show choir competitions…

Something that should have been passed down from a mother to her daughter.

That might have been the one thing that Little Miss Richie-Rich Rachel didn't have: a mother. Someone to tell her about relationships and boys and teach her how to put on makeup, someone to give her all of the guidance that she'd never gotten and had always needed.

Someone to tell her what to do now, when she was so confused and lost and feeling utterly hopeless about…everything.

Finn Hudson had just proposed.

There were very few aspects of the situation that Rachel was actually sure of, but one of the things she knew was this: she wasn't ready to be married. She was young and had so many dreams and ambitions…and maybe they weren't what everyone thought they were. That was okay. But as much as she wanted the whole picket fence with kids running around in the backyard and a little white dog nipping at her heels – she had everything planned out; the dog would be named Funny Girl and she would have a girl named Alexandra and a boy named Streisand – she wanted so many other things as well.

She knew she couldn't have both – at least, not just yet. She had to climb her way to the top of the dog-eat-dog world that would become her future, whether she went into Broadway or acting or journalism or _what_, before she could get married and settle down. Finn would just be another obstacle in the way of her dreams.

Or maybe that wasn't how it was supposed to be – maybe the right guy was supposed to help her rise to the top, not hold her back.

But that was the other problem: Finn clearly thought they were stronger than ever - Finchel, a firmly united pair. Them against the world.

Rachel, however, wasn't so sure anymore.

She and Finn were growing apart. She could sense it, and it really didn't come as a surprise – it was only natural. And while part of her wasn't ready to let go of him just yet – the guy she'd spent all of high school chasing and had only finally gotten her hands on – Rachel had always been the kind of girl who wanted magic. Lately around him, she just wasn't feeling it anymore.

She wouldn't let herself think about where she did feel it, however, because it overcame her with guilt, but the spark had left. Now they had ignited a different area of her life, dousing the flame of her and Finn's love.

Perhaps the most confusing part of all of this was that the closest they had gotten to magic in a long time was when Finn had knelt down on one knee and pulled out that ring.

"_Rachel Barbra Berry, I promise to love you, now and forever, and to always remember why I fell for you in the first place…will you do the same for me?"_

She almost had to stop in her tracks and hold herself up against the chain-link fence, her head was spinning so badly, but the longer she stuck around, the more secondhand-high she would get, and she had to drive home later, so she pushed onward.

That was probably why she felt so dizzy, she told herself…but she could say whatever she wanted and never have herself fooled. Rachel's problem wasn't that she was gullible: it was that she wasn't naïve enough. So many people had used and attacked her over the years that she was almost _too_ wise. She never let herself just take anybody's word for it.

Rachel always had to find out for herself. It was the writer's instinct in her, she had always assumed. Where it had come from, since she assumed that it was inherited, she had no idea. Both her biological mother and her two potential fathers (seeing as they didn't really know which was her biological dad due to the whole 'mixing-their-sperm' ordeal; the whole thing actually kind of grossed her out and she preferred not to think about it) had the big voice – the Broadway genes.

The things Rachel was supposed to inherit…and had inherited, sort of. She had the big voice, the stage presence – but what she didn't have was the love for it that her parents did.

Maybe one of the reasons why she and Quinn had become friends was that even at a young age, they had known what it felt like to have so much expected of them. Quinn and Rachel had both had so much pressure put on them…Rachel to be the best, to be a _star_, and Quinn to be the nice little Christian girl who wouldn't make the angels cry.

The fortunate thing about Rachel was that she knew how to push her true thoughts and feelings aside under pressure – thus the creation of Fake Rachel. Quinn, however…

Well, Rachel supposed that Quinn was the same way. It was what she saw in her under these bleachers, her mind blurred by cigarette fumes and drugs and her body ruined with needles and ink – a Fake Quinn.

Because no matter how punk Real Quinn might be on the inside – after all, you never really knew; you could think you knew a person so well and not know a single thing about them – Rachel knew her well enough to know that Real Quinn would never have given up so easily in life.

Real Quinn was in hiding. Rachel intended to bring her out.

The first step, she thought, was trusting her again – Quinn taking her hand when she reached out, instead of pushing her away like she did everybody else lately…everybody else but Sam.

Rachel couldn't help but feel suspicious about Quinn's obvious taking to Sam – and perhaps a little threatened, in multiple ways, by the fact that he could get through her walls when nobody else could – but that wasn't the thing she needed to focus on here. The fact that she could trust somebody, anybody, meant that she hadn't completely given up yet. She was obviously trying to, with the hair and the clothes and the friends that had the same 'I-don't-care' attitude that she was clearly trying to foster in herself, but she hadn't succeeded yet.

She was close, but not quite there.

Rachel just had to get through to her before she could get any closer.

Maybe it was only because she was confused, in general, that she perceived her first instinct to come to Quinn as plan and simple logic, but if there was anything Rachel knew about Quinn, it was that she would be honest with her – especially in her reformed state of mind, not caring what anyone thought or said about her and spewing her opinions left and right.

Quinn would tell her the truth, without worrying about sparing her feelings…and Rachel wished she could say that about the people who were supposed to be her 'true' friends. It always seemed like Kurt and Mercedes were walking on eggshells around her, expecting the littlest thing to set her off. Well, Fake Rachel may have been a bit sensitive, especially when it was a question of her talent and/or judgement, but Real Rachel was a fighter. She had been a fighter her entire life – fighting her dads' fierce grip on her life, her decisions, fighting the need for the nonexistant mother figure she'd always wanted.

But more than anything, Rachel Berry – no matter the version, no pretending – knew how to fight for herself. It didn't make her selfish; she simply knew how to do the things she needed to do, for her, without thinking about anyone else.

In this moment, however, with no idea what was best for her, Rachel was lost. And if anyone had ever known Rachel well enough to know what she needed to do in this moment, it was Quinn Fabray.

A shock of pink hair growing out blond at the roots among the rusty silver of the bleachers alerted Rachel to the presence of a certain Miss Fabray - and the familiar surrounding cloud of stale illicit drugs mixed with fresh cigarette smoke and a faint hint of self-loathing didn't do much to keep the poor girl hidden, either.

Rachel wasted no time.

She wasn't sure what had done it, but with a sudden burst of confidence, she marched right into Skank territory and snatched Quinn Fabray by the back of her oversized, Hot Topic mallrat goth hoodie, dragging her away into the distance.

Needless to say, Quinn was not pleased:

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?"

Rachel should have expected as much, but she wasn't in the mood to argue. She just needed…something. Support.

The support she wouldn't get anywhere else – the support she needed from a mother.

Instead, she was just going to have to settle for the closest thing she had: a best friend, even one as old and forgotten as Quinn.

Without saying a word, she simply pulled Finn's ring from her pocket, keeping it enclosed in her palm for a moment's hesitation before finally revealing her dirty little secret.

The ring was nothing flashy – although for a high school boy, it was probably worth a fortune – but Quinn's eyes bulged as if Rachel was holding the Hope diamond.

"That sneaky little whore…" were the first words out of Quinn Fabray's mouth. "What a plan."

Quinn seemed to resent every second of looking at the ring, her eyes constantly flickering between Rachel's palm and the ground as if she were fighting an internal battle with herself – _Look. No, don't. Wait, look again._

She had to admit that she was jealous. This was what she had always wanted, with Finn – a big, white wedding, straight out of high school. The type of event everyone would be jealous of. A quaint little honeymoon…nothing too exotic, but a passionate first week of marriage, full of not sex but _lovemaking_. The surprise pregnancy a couple months later, and more children to follow. Maybe not the easiest life, money-wise, but it was a happy one nonetheless.

_A future_, to be more specific. Quinn Fabray had always wanted a future for herself – and Finn Hudson had always been the boy she imagined it with….

Until Puck and Beth had entered the picture, unexpectedly crashing her plans and bringing her down with them.

Quinn had to admit that she could sympathize - at least a little bit - with Rachel, however. The confusion, not knowing where your life was heading. It was kind of like discovering you were pregnant and having to drop the bomb on everyone else around you.

This ring was Rachel's bomb. And while part of Quinn wanted to help her, all she could think to do in the heat of her jealousy was rebel.

"So, what do you need me for?" she snapped, the words effortlessly slipping out without a single thought. "Of course you said yes. What, did you come here to rub it in? To try and make me want to be tied down to the same guy for the rest of my life, going nowhere and never leaving Lima? To make me feel sorry for you, that you're about to start pulling a lot of dead weight around on the way to making those pretty little dreams of yours happening? I tried the 'fairytale' thing, Barbra, and trust me - you're just digging a hole for yourself trying to get that picture-perfect ending."

It was becoming a rant, she knew, but Quinn just couldn't stop herself. So many feelings inside her were coming out now that she didn't even _know _how to stop:

"Well, Dorothy, you're about to find out you're not in Kansas anymore when you try to make a storybook out of your life. Do you not have any respect for yourself? _Nobody's_ life is _ever_ going to be that happy smiling young family you see in parenting magazines, Little Miss Knee Socks. Just look at me. I was a mother at fifteen, and I lost _everything_. But do I run around feeling sorry for myself, shoving my stretch marks in everybody's faces like you're probably going to do with that damn ring of yours? God no. My life is fucked-up enough without bringing other people into the mess. You have got to stop creating problems for yourself, Rachel."

It was when she saw the tears streaming down Rachel's face that Quinn finally held her tongue. She crossed her arms, switching from offense to defense, and shoved the guilt back down her throat.

Rachel just choked out, "I didn't say yes…I didn't say anything. I don't know what to do…"

"_Honey, it's life. Nobody knows what they're doing." _

But instead of that – what she wanted to say – she instead cut another wire loose, her fuse shorting out: "Look, Berry – stop coming to me with all your problems! I'm not a little kid anymore. We're not in Kindergarten. I am _not _your friend anymore. And don't try to tell me you don't have anybody else because I'm sure that _entire _glee club of yours would _love_ to nip after your heels listening to all your problems and offering their condolences. Maybe try giving Trouty Mouth a ring; we _all_ know how he feels about you."

That remark, of all the things she had said, stung the most – not just for Rachel, but for Quinn, too, _because _it had clearly affected Rachel most of all. Reflecting on it, bringing Sam into this had been a terrible idea.

Quinn had a bad habit of inflicting pain on herself. Luckily she didn't have the scars to prove it – not anymore. The shame had been too great for the shiny plastic Fabray family to bear, and so her mother had paid for their removal not more than a month after she'd been caught in the bathroom with a box of matches.

What Judy didn't understand was that even if the physical scars weren't there anymore, Quinn would always look at herself and see the damage her family's concern for appearances had done.

"Quinn, are you really that blind?" Rachel sobbed. "_Nobody _in that glee club cares about me. They're there because…because of music, or...or…I don't know! It's not the Rachel Berry show, though; you don't understand. It's never been about me, Quinn. _You _were the Queen Bee, not me. No matter how many solos I sing, I will never have that. I'll always just be… a Lima loser! Forever."

_So maybe I ought to marry Finn_.

It couldn't have been more obvious that that was what she was thinking – where she was headed with this…and Quinn wanted to feel sorry for Rachel. She really did. But at this point, she was so caught up in the person she'd made herself into that she literally couldn't do it.

"Stop clinging onto the past, Rachel," she muttered. "It's behind us now. Deal with your own shit."

With those as her parting words, Quinn Fabray walked away, knowing that what she had said was the truth: the past was always behind you. Following. Never letting itself be forgotten.


	19. The Waiting One

Finding a Voice

19: The Waiting One

_SUPER IMPORTANT Author's Note: Sorry for the wait…and HOOO-LY SHIT, I'm up to chapter 19! I didn't think I'd ever live to see the day…this is one of my favorite numbers, and, HOT DAMN, we're one chapter away from chapter twenty! Why yes that was worth mentioning…and in honor of this special 19__th__ chapter, A QUICK MESSAGE TO EVERYONE READING THIS: No matter who you are, or what your size, shape, race, gender, color, brand name, favorite song, no matter your answer to the age old question, "Boxers or briefs?" or "Which came first – the chicken or the egg?", or "Why the hell are you reading this?", YOU ARE FUCKING GORGEOUS. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. I love you, not just because you're reading this right now, or JUST because of anything really…I just love you because everyone deserves to be loved. I think everyone should hear (or read) those words at least once a day, from someone who means it. And to everyone who might stumble across this page – I MEAN IT. And while we're at it, thanks for reading my story. It may be a stupid little Glee Fanfiction, but it still means a lot to know that people like what I'm writing. And now that that very lengthy introduction is over, dear loved ones, HERE'S CHAPTER NINETEEN!_

"Are you sure you trust me enough to do this?"

Rachel Berry, dressed in an extremely baggy old sweater that had all manner of stains on it – at least one for every color of the rainbow – that wouldn't ever have left her bedroom if not for these very special circumstances, was nervous. Her hands were shaking, and she felt about ready to drop the pair of scissors in them.

But who _should_ have been even more nervous than Rachel was Sam – and, naturally, because he should have been, he wasn't. He didn't care that she looked like a complete slob – or if he did, he hadn't said so – and he didn't care that she was about ready to navigate quite close to his neck with a pair of haircutting scissors. Hell, he didn't care that she of all people was about to give him a haircut in the first place! Rachel didn't even trust herself to cut her own hair. It didn't even have anything to do with looks or fear of a bad hairstyle – she just figured she'd manage to hurt herself.

Not that the thought of living with uneven bangs and a short, ragged attempt at layers was any better.

Sam Evans, though, brave boy that he was, could only laugh when Rachel asked the deciding question.

"You were the one who told me I needed a haircut in the first place," he replied with an easygoing smile. "I trust your vision."

The fact that he was trying to make light of the entire situation scared her more. She knew – or thought, rather – that he didn't care much about how he looked. It seemed that there were much more important matters on his mind now that he was working a part-time job and had to look after his younger brother and sister.

Glancing over at the napping siblings on the bed, Rachel smiled to herself and sighed. They looked like _angels _now, of course – not that they weren't sweet kids, but they had boundless energy. Paired up with a newcomer – all manner of excitement for the eight-and-six-year-olds – it spelled disaster in Rachel's book. It was a miracle they hadn't broken anything with their high-speed chases around the motel room and cramped games of hide-and-seek.

But despite the little things, Stevie and Stacy Evans inspired her. Their optimism and pure, uncompromised happiness regardless of their family's situation was amazing to her. Rachel only wished she could be like that in her life.

Looking away from the bed and back down at Sam, who was staring up at her now, she blushed a bit, but gave him a good, playful whack upside the head.

"Look down!" she scolded through laughter. "I can't cut all that hair off if all you're giving me is your face. I feel like I could poke an eye out!"

"For you, I'd be happy to lose it," he answered with a grin.

The compliment only deepened the red of Rachel's cheeks. "Thank you…I think?"

Seeming to realize what he had said, Sam snapped out of his quick daze and cleared his throat – the classic 'I'm-a-guy-and-I'm-still-cool' comeback after a touching moment. With a shrug, he said, "Well, what's a body part after all this?"

Sam looked around the room, at what little they had left, then back down at the floor. Rachel had to swallow back a lump in her throat.

It almost made her feel guilty – how priveleged she was, how much she owned, when the Evans family had nothing. What made her feel worse, however, was the fact that despite that she clearly had the upper hand, she still felt jealous. She wanted what Sam had – maybe not the cramped motel room, the confessed bedbug bites and long, cold nights with no heat, but all the love that his family had for each other. Going from upper-middle-class to below the poverty line had given them all such an appreciation for each other…and Rachel wanted that. She wanted her family to love her like that.

But they never would. It was partially her fault, Rachel knew – making herself so hard to be loved. After her transformation post-best-friend-breakup the summer before the ninth grade, she had become a lot more difficult to live with. At home, forms of Fake Rachel had always existed – to please her dads – but once she started living the part full-time, it became part of who she was. Real Rachel was buried, and her parents were forced to give her so much more.

All the things she asked for, demanded, though – the dance lessons, the singing lessons, her monthly sheet music budget, glee club costumes and transportation, the anonymous donations to the McKinley High Music Program, the necessity of which she was constantly making Mr. and Mr. Berry aware of: it didn't compare to what she really wanted, on the inside.

She just wanted someone to truly love her – unconditionally. No questions asked. The way parents were supposed to love their daughter.

Hiram and Leroy Berry spoiled their precious little pumpkin, of course, but money can't buy love. Rachel had always known that. And as for her mother…

Well, Shelby had rejected her a long time ago. It could go back as far as when she had given up her baby girl to the Berrys, or it could be as near and dear as last year, when she had removed all traces of herself from Rachel's life after deliberately trying to put herself in contact with her.

It hurt so badly, seeing her every day at school – walking into her history class and acting like she didn't feel anything toward her, raising her hand and calling her 'Ms. Corcoran' like she was just another teacher. But it was like with Mr. Shuester; there was no pretending that they were just the same as all the others…only with Shelby, that wasn't a good thing.

Rachel had learned as soon as Shelby had started teaching at McKinley High that an education didn't do much in the way of love, either. Frankly, she didn't give a flying squirrel's behind whether _Ms. Corcoran_ passed her or not – all she could think of was that she had failed her daughter when Rachel had needed her: _always_.

Maybe that was why Rachel felt like she couldn't just say no to Finn. She didn't want that married life for herself yet, that was true – she had so much she felt obliged to achieve while she was still young, while a husband could come or go at any time, whether she was nineteen or ninety-seven – but Finn definitely loved her. That ring proved that, if nothing else he had ever done before had been enough.

Looking down at Sam and his furry, soon-to-be clean and trim mop of blond hair – his head almost eye level with her even though he was seated in proper guy position, with terrible posture, while she stood tall and regal as always, like the ballerina she'd been training as for eleven years – Rachel couldn't help but feel a surge of more guilt.

She had to tell him, of course, but the real question lied in the word, "_How?_"

Attempting to calm her shaking hands, Rachel decided to banish Finn Hudson and her engagement from her thoughts altogether and focus on the process of making her best friend look like the handsome young man she knew he was behind all that hair.

Even though she hated the sheepdog look on him – or on any boy, for that matter – she had to admit that she would be sad to see his artificially-blond locks go. Rachel was going to miss leaning over to ruffle his hair and getting her fingers tangled in it, or having him make a joke out of tossing it and wearing his best 'male model' expression, but, let's face it, whether she was taken or not, it didn't change the fact that she was a functioning female in her childbearing years with eyes, and Sam was gorgeous. With or without his signature, seventies-throwback hairstyle, he would always be gorgeous.

One more deep breath and she would be ready not to screw this all up.

"All right. I'm diving in!" she announced, sounding as determined as she felt. Her heart was still racing – and she still feared cutting his ear off – but she clung onto the hope that seeing the first chunk of hair drop to the ground would make her feel better.

It didn't.

Her shriek as she cut off the first piece of hair even managed to scare the infallable Sam Evans, whose hair this was on the line here.

"What?! What happened?!" Sam asked, wondering if he was bleeding profusely or had a huge bald spot or perhaps an unnoticed tick the size of a quarter on the back of his head.

Or maybe it was just his girl-reppelling instincts kicking in involuntarily, thought Mr. 'Forever Alone.'

Rachel was kind of afraid to answer, even though the truth of the matter was that there was nothing wrong with what she had done. It wasn't too short, and she hadn't hurt him – she figured he would know if she'd hurt him, probably would have reacted first.

She'd only screamed because of her shock at the fact that _she _had done it.

It worried Sam when Rachel didn't respond, but when he saw her bend down to pick up the piece of yellow-blond hair off the ground, he at least felt a little better. It kind of freaked him out when she started laughing, though.

"Oh, my God – I'm cutting your hair!" Rachel exclaimed, practically thrusting the lock into his face as if he needed any more proof other than the fact that she was here with a pair of scissors and he was paying her good gummy bears to do this for him.

All he did was laugh.

She wasn't sure what she expected from him exactly – it wasn't just funny; it was _hilarious_ – but a laugh seemed to mean so much more than what it could have been…a joke or a teasing little quip. An absentminded smile. But Rachel loved to hear his laugh.

Maybe that was what made her say it:

"Can you keep a secret?"

She asked the question so abruptly that Sam had no idea where it was coming from, but his heartbeat quickened, knowing he should be worried. He was – after all, even someone who looked so utterly okay on the outside, like Rachel, could be hiding a lot of hurt. A couple years ago, Sam would have assumed her secret to be something like a crush she didn't want anyone to know about, or an embarrassing hobby, or that she had (awkwardly) lost her virginity over the weekend, but now he knew better than to assume.

Because Sam knew he was one of those 'okay' kids – he'd been the kid whose mom sewed designer labels into his Target brand jeans, and the kid who dated girls just because he thought they were pretty. He'd been that kid, and he'd still ended up where he was today: still looking for the courage to get over his body dysmorphia, far from 'at terms with' his sexuality, and, worst of all, his voice – his best asset – silenced.

A 'need-to-know' feeling spread through his entire being, but it wasn't that simple; Sam knew about questions, and he knew about answers. If he came at her too eagerly, she'd scamper off like a startled deer. If he stumbled over his words and ended up hurting her feelings, there went her secret, and there went their entire friendship with it. He couldn't stand to lose something so special – something so _Rachel_.

He had to pry it out of her – but carefully. Sneakily. Here, all of his ninja-assassin moves from the past year of being one of the 'cool kids' playing video games in Finn's basement would come in handy.

"You're not asking because you think I have a big mouth, are you?" Sam joked, a half-hearted smile finding its way onto his face.

The joke was bad – worse than bad, even – but he knew it was the way to gain her trust. He had to remind her that she was talking to Sam Evans - maybe the only person she could really trust, judging from the way the other kids looked at her, even in glee club; from the way everyone treated her over-eager opinions on Barbra Streisand versus Whitney Houston or from the looks they gave when they overheard her crazy laugh at one of Sam's various impressions.

Rachel smiled – exactly what Sam had wanted – but it was too…wrong. Too absentminded to really mean anything…and it scared him. It meant this secret was more than it seemed.

He couldn't have been more confused when Rachel gently set down the scissors on the tiny excuse for a kitchen table and pulled out a slim silver chain from under her white-sweater-and-blue-jumper combo.

That was when he saw the tiny sparkle of a just-as-tiny diamond on the ring suspended from that very chain.

"Did…did Finn give that to you?" he asked, his eyebrows knitting together as he tried to make sense of the situation. His heart almost seemed to be beating harder in his chest than it had been when he'd expected the worst…maybe because this was _worse_ than the worst.

Rachel nodded slowly, daring to make nervous eye-contact but her brown eyes quickly darting away before she could. She seemed scared – scared of him, maybe. Scared of his opinion, scared of what this meant for them. Whether this was going to change anything. Whether he thought she was stupid or not.

"So what does it mean for you guys?"

She didn't answer; only swallowed and bit back some kind of emotion as she peeked absentmindedly through the blinds covering the dirty motel window.

The impact of what he had suspected all along finally hit him as he blurted, his heart still racing like it was trying to win the Indie 500, "Is that an engagement ring?"

Rachel nodded through what looked like tears starting to form, but Sam could see how hard she was trying to hold them back. His green eyes searched desperately for hers, wanting some kind of affirmation that this wasn't true – that she wasn't going to ruin her life like this, ruin all of her potential – but the look on her face was more of a death sentence than a reassurance.

"You and Finn…are gettting married?"

"Um…yeah." Rachel quickly swallowed back her emotions again, a flicker of a fake smile crossing her face for a moment before fading into a different look – a look that almost seemed…troubled. But she sure wasn't the picture of a glowing bride.

He wasn't sure how to feel: sad - maybe. Confused - definitely. Scared for her – of course. But there was something else in there he couldn't put a finger on – anger, or maybe even jealousy. If anyone Sam knew was going to make it out of this cow town and make a name for themself, it would be Rachel Berry.

But that wasn't why he was jealous. Sure, he didn't want to be stuck in Lima forever, but the thing about Rachel was that she _deserved _to get out of here. The thing about Finn was that he'd just keep holding her back. He didn't deserve her, and she didn't deserve that.

Sam didn't deserve her, either, quite frankly – not that that was what he wanted…or maybe it was. He really didn't know. All he knew was that this was happening, and he didn't want it to be.

The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Rachel's feelings, but in light of everything that was going through his head right then, he wasn't thinking straight enough to know what else to say: "Don't take this the wrong way, but I think this is a bad idea."

Despite how lost she'd looked a moment ago, Rachel didn't know why Sam wasn't happy for her. What was even more confusing was that she still felt it – she still felt lost. But she also felt like she needed to bounce back – recoil. Like this was less of the friendly advice it would have been if they'd been talking about converting back to vegetarianism from veganism. It seemed like an attack – and she couldn't help but be offended.

But at the same time, a little part of Rachel understood where he was coming from. That part of Rachel even thought that this _felt _wrong – that maybe she wasn't as in love as she'd originally thought.

But that part of Rachel was the Real Rachel shining through, and so Fake Rachel quickly shut her up; even though this was only Sam, she was scared to admit to the truth right now. That was where her cover came in: _My name is Rachel Berry, and I find my self-worth in my future husband, Finn Hudson. Did I mention I'm only seventeen years old and about to get married?_

"Why?" Rachel asked tentatively, trying not to sound as hurt as she felt but too afraid not to seem taken aback.

Sam didn't even have to think before answering; it almost seemed to Rachel like he'd been holding it back forever, although she wasn't sure how that could be possible seeing as he'd only just found out.

"He's your high school boyfriend," he pointed out. "Do you really expect to spend the rest of your life with him? I mean, you might think you love him now, but you might not feel that way in five or ten years when it's too late to undo all of this without really hurting anyone."

His words stung both parts of Rachel, but for vastly different reasons. Real Rachel couldn't help but think he couldn't have been more right, and that was what hurt her the most in the end…but as always, Fake Rachel was the one to talk: "Sam, I…I love him. He's the one. I just…I just know; I can just feel it."

She sounded desperate; she would be the first one to tell herself, since Sam would be too nice to say so even though they both knew it was true.

"The way you're looking at me right now, I don't believe you," Sam mumbled, his eyes flying down to the floor at the moment the words escaped from his lips. She couldn't tell if it was because he was embarrassed, or because this was some kind of a confession, but Rachel was – overall – too confused to understand.

She took it the wrong way with a sigh, just as he had expected her to: "Sam, you know how I feel about you…and I thought you felt the same way, but…"

Rachel trailed off meaningfully, not having the heart to break his. Sam only managed to contradict himself even more when, even though he hadn't meant it like that, he still felt his heart thud disappointedly in his chest.

"I'm not saying I'm in love with you Rachel…that's not what I meant. I just meant I…" he started to stammer, somehow feeling like he was lying even though he was 99.9% sure that he wasn't. "I mean…I just think…I guess what I'm trying to say is, you shouldn't have to argue with me on this. You sound like you're trying to convince yourself that this is what you want, not me."

Rachel crossed her arms, not just feeling defensive but also wanting to hide. It was that terrible feeling spreading over her – that feeling like all eyes were on her even though there was only one other pair in the room. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her, branding his name into her heart and making her sure that she would never forget this moment, ever.

As she opened her mouth to speak, she almost lost her breath as a sharp pain stabbed into her ribs, like someone had driven a knife through her stomach and twisted slowly.

"Sam, I know what I want. I want Finn," Rachel spit out, speaking so quickly that it almost seemed to Sam like she didn't want to hear herself say it. It was pathetic – but not in a bad way. Just in a way that broke your heart, like seeing a hurt dog or a child scrounging for food on the streets.

"If you really felt it, I think you'd just do it," Sam blurted. "Why do you care what I think so much in the first place?"

He regretted the question as soon as he'd said it. He'd finally pulled the trigger, tears spilling over and pouring down Rachel's face like she'd been trying so hard to keep from happening. She was wearing her heart on her sleeve, and for a moment it was like Sam could read her mind – he could tell that he'd thrown their friendship out the window with those few words; that she thought he'd shattered it into a million pieces. Like she thought it didn't mean a thing to him when it had so clearly meant everything to both of them.

"You're my best friend," Rachel struggled to choke out through sobs, "and…and I trust you. And I just want you to think that I'm doing the right thing."

Sam wanted to give up now; to walk over and hug her like the comforting teddy bear he'd been this whole time. He wanted to be her supportive wingman, waiting like always, but a tiny part of him he hadn't even known he had was suddenly standing up and taking charge.

He couldn't let her do this…and it wasn't just about ruining her life anymore. It was slowly becoming selfish, and so much more than that.

Despite that he knew he shouldn't have, the words were coming out before he had a chance to think about what was happening: "Well, if you want the truth, I don't think you would be happy with him for the rest of your life."

_You'd be happier with me._

The look Rachel was staring at him with was so utterly lost, yet in such utter understanding of what he'd said that she almost seemed like she was wanted to admit that he was right.

Part of her thought he was…but everything in her was afraid to admit it.

"But, I…I will be."

She could hear the desperate attempt to make herself believe that Sam had pointed out before, but she still kept talking: "He's the love of my life, Sam. You only fall in love once. I can't risk losing that."

That was the closest thing to the truth she'd said this whole time. Part of her was just heartbreakingly confused about who she was talking about.

Sam sighed, stepping forward and offering a comforting hand on her shoulder. But he couldn't bring himself to do much more than that.

He had to make her believe first.

"Think of it this way then – Mr. Shue asked us to think about where we'd be in 2030. And I know you weren't thinking of being with Finn. You were dreaming about being in New York. 'Cause that's what you do Rachel. You get these big dreams and have this undying faith that they're going to come true."

Rachel was crying harder now, but she'd been nodding along with every word he'd said. She was nodding and she didn't even realize it.

A little glimmer of hope flashed before Sam's eyes, so he kept going: "You know what I see when I close my eyes and think about the future?"

He brought himself to smile, and patiently waited for her to smile back – always the waiting one.

She never did. And yet he pressed on.

"I see myself and my kids at your place, and our kids are hanging out, and we're still friends and…" He paused to sigh. "Look, Rachel. True love only comes once, yeah, but so does true friendship. And that's only if you're lucky."

He waited a moment before adding, "I want us to stay lucky."

The feeling when Rachel actually smiled at him was incomparable to anything he'd ever felt before.

"Me, too," she said, an earnest tone in her voice.

Sam smiled back, but it quickly faded. She still hadn't agreed with him. His mission wasn't over yet.

"Don't marry him, Rachel. I can tell you don't want to," he pleaded, now becoming the desperate one. Rachel could recognize this – recognize all the love and longing and resentment in his voice – and yet she still couldn't bring herself to agree.

No matter how much she wanted to, there was still something – fear, or hope, or plain old stupidity – holding her back.

Carefully, she wiped away her tears and picked up the scissors again, reaching up to comb her fingers through Sam's hair just for the comforting feeling of it.

"Sit down; you look ridiculous with one chunk of your hair missing like that," she said, trying to steer the conversation away from the thing that could potentially make or break them. They were both going to have to deal with this at some point or another, but this wasn't the time.

The smile on his face when Sam did as she said was a Sam smile, surely enough, but it was missing something.

Swallowing down another round of tears, Rachel thought she knew what.


	20. Let Love Bleed Red

Finding a Voice

20: Let Love Bleed Red

He was standing outside the choir room when he heard it:

"Rachel."

Only it wasn't spoken with the love it deserved.

It was spoken with malice – with the angry bite of someone who wanted to hurt the person who had hurt them.

It was Finn Hudson's voice, and it only made Sam more intent on keeping Rachel from marrying him.

His hands clenching into bitter fists, his teeth grinding together with a force that could've rubbed the fillings right off, he took a step forward before stopping himself. And then he waited.

He hadn't stopped himself from striking. Oh, no – he was going to do that. He had stopped himself from stopping Finn. The damage had already been done; it didn't matter how much he hurt Rachel. He still did it. He still hurt her – the woman he supposedly loved and wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

This was the guy standing in Sam Evans' way.

Sam couldn't afford to make hasty decisions that would only get him a trip to Figgins' office and another pink slip straight into detention. First of all, he needed his permanent record as neat and tidy as he could possibly get it if he planned on getting out of this cow town...but secondly, starting a fight with Finn was just going to get him even more on his bad side, and Sam knew the saying: Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.

Sam wanted Finn Hudson close. So close that Finn could feel him breathing on his neck. That was the only distance that was really close enough to get a slice of the guy Finn Hudson really was – the only distance that could possibly hurt him.

So he lay in wait. And he listened.

"Rachel, I'm not going to bother asking you why you skipped out on me yesterday, 'cause we both know. Nobody else would've volunteered to spend the afternoon cutting off Trouty's Bieber hair. That's a great way to treat your fiancee, you know; ditching him for another guy."

Every word cut another one of his heartstrings until he felt so broken he could barely breathe.

Finn paused and sighed before adding in a rushed mumble, "Sorry, Rach. Just…call me back."

With that one 's-word,' Sam Evans forgot everything he'd told himself about, 'Patience, young Jedi,' and making a sneaky, Chuck-Norris ninja move on him. Of all the things Finn Hudson could have said, 'Sorry' was the worst. Sorry was the worst because he didn't mean it. He was _never_ going to mean it.

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself: "Hey, Hudson!"

Finn was already turning around, looking for where it had come from, leaving Sam no time to get away. His only choice was to walk in and own up before Finn could decide he'd just been hearing things.

With the loose-hipped walk of someone much more confident than him, Sam strolled casually into the choir room, tossing his backpack against the door. For added effect, he cracked his knuckles and tried to look threatening even though he knew it wouldn't be possible. If Rachel could see him right now, she would have made fun of him.

"_Sam, come on – you and I both know you're about as threatening as a teddy bear with a plastic knife,_" she would've said, and they both would have laughed so hard that she would snort and he would squirt whatever he was drinking out his nose.

It almost made him smile until he remembered why he was here.

Finn's eyes locked on Sam with an air of confusion at first, then anger, then jealousy. He seemed to revert back to anger all within a few seconds – anger mixed with cockiness – as he asked, nodding at him like the cool guy he thought he was, "What are you doing here?"

"Glee club. Same as you," Sam replied, taking a few steps in Finn's direction and cramming his hands as far into his back pockets as they would go. He was practically shaking; he was so nervous. What he would've given to stop dodging the point and throw the first punch already. He could tell they both wanted to, if not for the fact that both of their futures would be put at stake if they did.

"Well, look who decided to show up early I guess," Finn said, a smirk finding its way onto his face. He gestured to Sam as he said it, even his movements seeming sarcastic. "Funny since it's not like you've got a song to work on or anything. I mean, it's not like you can sing anyways, right? Since your voice is acting all screwy."

It was the chorus geek insult to end all chorus geek insults, and Sam knew it. A couple years ago, he would've been so ashamed of feeling embarrassed by such a lame comeback that he wouldn't have eaten for a month. Well, that was progress, he supposed…

"Finn, I know I'm the blond one and I shouldn't be talking, but do you ever get tired of acting like an idiot?" Sam snapped, his emotions getting the best of him. "Like, I don't know…that romantic phone call to your girlfriend a few minutes ago? Or should I say _fiancee_? I'm sure she'll appreciate that when she gets it. I know I'm going to love listening to her cry on my shoulder later tonight."

"What makes you think you know Rachel so well?" blurted Finn. He had almost seemed ashamed of himself for a moment there, but now it had all turned into jealousy. If the green-eyed monster had a name, it would be Finn Hudson, and its game, fighting over Rachel Berry.

"Well, let's see – I know she's not going to like us fighting over her," Sam replied, walking a wide circle around Finn as if he was looking over his prey. Despite his words, he would have loved nothing more than a good fight right now, but he couldn't make things worse for Rachel.

"Good, then we can just say I win, right? Since it's me she said she wanted to marry someday."

That was all it took for Sam Evans to walk right up to Finn, look him in the eyes, and say, "Tell me how much you love her, then."

"I don't have anything to prove to you, Evans. She knows I love her and that's all that matters," he replied.

Sam shook his head, almost wanting to laugh, and looked down at his toes. "She doesn't know. You don't tell her enough...or, apparently, anyone else for that matter."

"What do you know about love, Sam? You dated, what, one girl last year, and look where that got you – she dumped you on your sorry ass, and now you're chasing after some chick who's about to get married and ask you to be the maid of honor," Finn retorted, his words cutting like a knife.

Sam almost felt like crying, something he never would've dreamed of doing if it weren't for what Finn had just said. But he didn't feel wrong about it. Crying wasn't going to suddenly make him less of a man. The one thing that turned a man back into a boy was being what Finn Hudson was being: selfish. Sam didn't know much about love, seeing as he'd only just realized he'd fallen in it, but he knew that it wasn't about rewarding yourself. It was about giving the other person everything you had to give and more.

"I'm going to marry her someday, Hudson," Sam said confidently, getting right up in his face and suddenly feeling more sure of himself than he'd been in months. "Just you watch."

And, just like that, he turned around, forgetting (or maybe just not really caring) about glee club and grabbing his backpack off the floor. That was all he had to say to Finn. He didn't need to throw a punch this time.

Not when he had so much more to say to Rachel.

And so it was that Sam Evans walked out the front door of McKinley High School, before the day was even over, humming to himself.

Sam Evans had found his voice again.


	21. Drops of Jupiter

Finding a Voice

21: Drops of Jupiter

Sam Evans took a deep breath.

This was it. This was his time to shine, and if he broke down now, it was the only chance he was going to get.

He'd forgotten everything: the past summer, how he'd had his heart broken, how he'd skipped lunch to practice this song over again for what had to have been the fiftieth time today.

He hummed the melody to himself, scared of forgetting this much. A little bit of forgetting was good, but the words, the song – intolerable.

His guitar was over his shoulders, every string sounding like a dream. There was nothing better than a freshly-tuned guitar, in Sam's opinion. Some things in life you just couldn't beat, and that was one of them.

The pick in his hand shook, his palms clammy and his heart racing. He kept humming, but with a sense of urgency. Normally he would have felt like he couldn't _wait_ to get this over with, but given the circumstance, he didn't want to rush. It had to count.

It was the only chance he had.

That was when he walked into the glee club.

"Mr. Shue, I've got a song to sing."

Sam watched their reactions, almost smirking he was so pleased with the disturbance he'd caused. Finn's eyes were shifty, as if he were skeptical of some kind of ulterior motive. (It wasn't that far off.) Kurt and Mercedes' jaws dropped in unison. Santana folded her arms across her chest, sitting back as if she were saying, 'Well, this oughta be good.'

And then there was Rachel.

She looked almost ready to cry, she was so overwhelmed with confusion and pride and love for her best friend. It broke Sam's heart, but in a good way…yet this still didn't satisfy him. Her love for him was purely platonic, and he wouldn't settle until she at least understood why that wasn't going to work for him.

Mr. Shue's was perhaps the most pleasing expression of all, however. All afternoon he'd been waiting to see the shocked look on his face – all the regret at putting so much pressure on him plastered onto his sleeve. In the end, he would still attribute this to Rachel, but this meant the end of all the abuse he'd endured…he'd no longer be called out for mouthing the words or not paying attention, or maybe just not caring. This would show them all.

It wasn't just a step forward toward admitting his feelings for Rachel. It was a step toward Sam Evans becoming a man, and leaving behind all the harsh feelings that had left him famished and emaciated and stuck in a rehabilatory clinic.

It was him proving himself. It was redemption. It was him – finally good enough.

"Well, Sam…this is certainly a surprise…go for it, I guess," Mr. Shuester said, the smile on his face somehow disappointed and proud at the same time. Sam didn't know how it was possible, but he didn't like it. All he should have seen there was pride.

Sam ignored it, having more important things to be thinking about, and started to play. The intro to the song was supposed to be on piano, but since all he played was guitar, he'd spent the last three weeks working out the chords on his old acoustic, bought back for him by Rachel and Finn all those months ago.

Everyone stared at him as if he'd broken a sound-barrier when he started to sing,

"_Now that she's back in the atmosphere  
>With drops of Jupiter in her hair, hey, hey<br>She acts like summer and walks like rain  
>Reminds me that there's time to change, hey, hey<br>Since the return from her stay on the moon  
>She listens like spring and she talks like June, hey, hey.<em>"

At the short break in the lyrics, the club's shock seemed to shatter and leave them with wide grins on their faces, Rachel and even Kurt with tears in their eyes. They clapped and cheered, leaving Sam beaming as he sang onward, daring to even look up from his guitar.

His eyes met Rachel's as the chorus approached.

"_Tell me did you sail across the sun  
>Did you make it to the Milky Way to see the lights all faded<br>And that heaven is overrated_

_Tell me, did you fall from a shooting star_  
><em>One without a permanent scar<em>  
><em>And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there<em>."

It was so…relative to him, to his life. It seemed so easy to get the words out when just a month ago it would have been so hard.

He assumed it was the fact that he didn't know how to say what he needed to say that did it – that convinced him to pick up his guitar again and let it all out. In the end, it hadn't been that his voice was simply gone; it had been that he was holding himself back, and he couldn't help but feel on top of the world at having overcome what he had…

And then the problem of Rachel brought him back down.

"_Now that she's back from that soul vacation  
>Tracing her way through the constellation, hey, hey<br>She checks out Mozart while she does tae-bo  
>Reminds me that there's room to grow, hey, hey<em>."

Looking at her was so easy now. He'd forgotten how much a song could say, and it was like the words had poured out of his own mind – like he had written them just for her.

"_Now that she's back in the atmosphere  
>I'm afraid that she might think of me as plain ol' Jane<br>Told a story about a man who is too afraid to fly so he never did land_.

_Tell me did the wind sweep you off your feet  
>Did you finally get the chance to dance along the light of day<br>And head back to the milky way_  
><em>And tell me, did Venus blow your mind<br>Was it everything you wanted to find  
>And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there<em>."

It took courage, but he took a step toward her, and soon the steps were coming until he was right in front of her, serenading her like he'd meant to this whole time. She was so surprised that she dropped Finn's hand, forgetting all about the engagement ring hanging from the chain around her neck.

It didn't take long for her to lose herself, feeling like a schoolgirl being courted on the playground. She smiled and blushed and hid her face in her hands, and half of the room stopped singing background to grin at her, Santana even bothering to wink. Only a few people seemed unamused – perhaps by the unfolding love triangle – but it was just such a genuinely happy moment for everyone in the glee club, especially the two best friends, that no one even considered bringing up the impossibility of this whole situation.

Sam reached out to take her hand while he sang the next few lines, feeling more and more desperate as the end of the song approached. He saw her listening, enjoying, but he didn't see her understanding, and more than anything he needed her to know, right now, what these words really meant to him.

"_Can you imagine no love, pride, deep-fried chicken  
>Your best friend always sticking up for you even when I know you're wrong<br>Can you imagine no first dance, freeze dried romance five-hour phone  
>Conversation<br>The best soy latte that you ever had, and me_."

Rachel seemed half-hearted all of a sudden; her smile was still there, but it had faded a little.

_Me_.

That was the word that made Rachel Berry drop Sam Evans' hand.

In a way, it made the rest of the song mean everything and nothing at the same time.

_She knows_, he thought, and even though that had been the whole point, he was starting to regret what he had done.

They both seemed to forget it all as he sang on, though, finishing the song stronger than he'd ever been, his notes belted with unwavering courage that he'd never had before.

"_Tell me did the wind sweep you off your feet  
>Did you finally get the chance to dance along the light of day<br>And head back toward the Milky Way_

_And are you lonely looking for yourself out there?_

_Tell me did you sail across the sun_  
><em>Did you make it to the milky way to see the lights all faded<em>  
><em>And that heaven is overrated<em>

_Tell me, did you fall from a shooting star_  
><em>One without a permanent scar<em>  
><em>And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there<em>."

The last note rang out on his guitar, filling the whole room with awe and the remnants of one final Dm chord.

It only took a second for them to spring to their feet, clapping and cheering like no one had ever done for Sam before. Before he even had time to realize what was happening, he was smothered in hugs, Santana, uncharacteristically, daring to be the first one to swallow him up in her arms, a genuine smile on her face. More and more hugs and applause and encouragement followed, from all but Finn Hudson, but the words that meant everything to him came from Rachel:

"Does this mean we can sing together now?"

Sam could see the tears in the corners of her eyes, but he knew they weren't because of him but because of the power of the lyrics, so he smiled anyways.

"Yeah, Rach," he said, the biggest grin of his life spreading across his face as she sprang at him and wrapped her arms around his neck.

Rachel smiled into his shoulder, her tears soaking through his shirt sleeves.

"You're my best friend, Sam."

Those five words somehow managed to both reassure him and crush him at the same time.


	22. Mr Brightside

Finding a Voice

22: Mr. Brightside

"Rachel, I need to tell you something."

Sam had been standing there for over an hour, waiting for her to get home. The pouring rain was beating down on his head, but he only had one thing on his mind: the truth.

All this lying was killing him. They were best friends, brought together by her project, but what he had realized was that everything in that project was a lie. The draft she'd been inspired to write after his song – the one that she'd e-mailed him after finishing at two in the morning last night – did him justice, all right…too much justice. That was when it hit him.

Rachel Berry knew nothing about him.

He wasn't a hero. He wasn't lost and trying to find himself. He was pretty sure of who he was now – and, yes, it was all because of her and had nothing to do with that summer, but still.

Sam Evans was nothing but a guy who had gotten misguided. He'd gone down the wrong path, hidden from who he really was – a person that Rachel knew better than anyone, but still didn't know the half of – and now, he was standing here, brave and back on track, but shaking in his boots…

Because what if the person he really was wasn't somebody that Rachel could love?

She knew so much, but she still didn't know about any of it: about Quinn's lofty expectations, their abusive relationship, the excessive working out and drastic undereating, the summer spent in rehab, the first person he had ever loved, a boy, and the second – her.

At least there was a chance that she knew that – about how much she meant to him – but that was only a chance. It was better than nothing, but it was still hardly anything at all, and it was tearing him apart inside. It was tearing him apart because Rachel was about to marry Finn Hudson, and Sam was about to lose the girl who had saved his life.

Rachel clearly wasn't expecting him to be standing there on her front steps, soaking wet with his tee shirt clinging to his defined muscles like static, clearly with something heavy on his mind, when she pulled into her driveway that day. The emotions on her face were conflicted – bashful, and happy to see him, but worried, and scared that something was wrong. She could see it in _his _face, too: the puppy dog eyes, the frightened deer-in-headlights look, the utter seriousness. The laugh that was normally playing at the corners of his eyes and lips was nowhere to be found.

"Sam, are…are you okay?"

Rachel wasn't sure what else was to be said. She was so scared and desperately confused; so confused, in fact, that all she was aware of was that there were questions and answers hanging over their heads, but she was even less sure of the questions than the answers.

His palms sweating, Sam stammered out a reply: "Yes. Well, no…well, I'm fine, Rachel, but I just…I haven't exactly been honest with you."

In his mind, he let out a bitter laugh; that was an understatement. On the outside, he was frozen stiff, wet and freezing cold but not feeling any of it except for the guilt and fear of acceptance.

There was so much to be said, and Sam didn't even know where to start – or what to say, or how to keep himself from crying, or to keep himself from scaring Rachel…although that, evidentally, had already failed miserably. She already looked as if she might cry, too.

"Sam, tell me what's going on," she said, her voice coming out with much more strength than she actually had. "Is something happening at home? Are you okay? Is…is there something serious we need to talk about?"

Slowly, hesitantly, he nodded his head. Rachel took a moment to take this in, to process what this actually meant, and bit back tears, although one already felt as if it would leak from the corners of her eyes. She didn't know what was happening, but she didn't like it. She was terrified.

"Rachel, please, just…don't….judge me," Sam said, taking a step toward her and planting a hand firmly on her shoulder. He searched for her eyes, for a hint of the strength and determination he knew she had in there somewhere, but all he could find was hurt and worry.

"Sam_,what's going on_?" Rachel asked more assertively. She was too scared to take it out on herself, so she took it out on him. "You can't do this to me. You cannot play games. If there's something wrong, you have to tell me so we can fix it. If you did something wrong, I promise I will forgive you; please, just don't torture me like this…say something!"

Sam took a deep breath; he'd found his voice once already this week, so he figured, how hard could it be to do it a second time?

It turned out to be more difficult than anticipated. The desire to tell Rachel everything – what had happened last year, last summer, how he felt about Quinn and Trace and, most of all, her – was overwhelmingly strong, but his brain seemed to be fighting against him, because the words to say what he so badly needed to were nowhere to be found. He had thought that admitting to himself that he had a problem was difficult, but it was nothing compared to telling Rachel. He was so scared to disappoint her, or scare her – not that he hadn't already managed to do that – that he literally couldn't do it.

"Well, I, um…" he started to say, buying himself time.

_Come on, Sam; pull yourself together. You can do this. You have to do this._

"I'm sorry, Rachel…I just…I can't do this," Sam blurted, not even realizing what he was saying until it was too late.

His instincts catching up with him, he ran.

He ran down Rachel's street, past McKinley High, all the way across town until he showed up on the front steps of the motel, soaking wet and offering no explanation to Stevie or Stacy or his mother or his father as to where he had been all evening or why he had missed dinner.

As for Rachel, the rain was beating down on her just as hard, mixing with her tears and washing down her cheeks like a mudslide. Her heart still beat fast with fear, and something that almost felt like longing…

She'd never wanted Sam Evans the way she wanted him that night. She'd always wanted him simply as a friend, but as she changed out of her wet clothes and crawled into bed, she felt as though she wanted to kiss him and make everything all right, like there was something deeply wrong that she needed to fix.

Her last thought before falling asleep that night was that she was going to make things right – make _him_ all right – no matter what it would take.


	23. The Final Blow

Finding a Voice

23: The Final Blow

_Author's Note: Okay, guys. I know. It's been almost a month. I'm sorry. I hope you'll keep reading anyways!_

When Rachel had first decided to find out what was wrong with Sam, she'd felt like she always did when she cared about other people – awkward, like she was putting her nose in a place it didn't belong. Only, she'd realized, this time was different. There was more to it than just being curious, or nosy.

Sam Evans had scared her.

She'd known something was wrong from the second he'd shown up at her door that day, and it didn't take long afterwards to realize it was serious. It had scared her more that Sam clearly felt like this was something he couldn't trust her with – although, this time, she didn't feel this way because of herself. Normally, this was an "Oh-my-God-he-isn't-really-my-best-friend-is-he?" kind of problem for her, but this time, it was serious. Something was actually wrong with him.

Rachel had probably made it worse for herself by allowing her imagination to get carried away: he'd broken the law. He'd gotten a girl pregnant. Someone at home was sick or dying. He'd run away. Stevie or Stacy had gotten kidnapped. He couldn't afford to go to college, or one of his parents didn't want him to. He was gay. He was…

That was where she had stopped herself. She would have known if Sam was gay – or, at least, Kurt definitely would have. He could spot gay from a mile away with a blindfold on and his ears plugged. That was where the line was drawn, but that still left a thousand too many possibilities – and none of them were good.

They were all the kind of things that Rachel would have wanted to stop herself from believing if she'd known what they were. Even if she had heard them from Sam himself, she would have denied them in her head – wanted to think that there was no way he could be dealing with something like this. And she knew exactly why.

It was selfish, yes, but with Finn's proposal, she had enough on her plate as it is – and much of it had to do with Sam, she was hesitant to admit. Trying to get a grip on her feelings was making her head spin, and half the time, she didn't even know what she was doing or thinking. Sometimes when she was with Finn or Sam, she'd confuse the two, tell stories one had told her to the same guy thinking it was the other or – once – even thinking that Finn was Sam when he had kissed her…

Well, 'thinking' was her word of choice, anyways. It was just too difficult to believe that 'thinking' had actually been 'wishing' or 'hoping.' Wanting something like that from Sam, just as she had the other night, was dangerous. It was risking their entire friendship and her entire relationship with Finn – and what was worse was, she already understood how Sam felt.

She'd understood basically from the moment he'd first laid eyes on her that day in the choir room, and even more so when the lyrics started pouring out. But it didn't matter to her how well she understood. Rachel didn't want to believe it. It was difficult even to think the words, because she knew that every time she did she was only tantalizing herself.

_I lo-_

Sometimes she would start to think it, when his eyes were twinkling at her in the choir room or when he waited for her at her locker to walk her to class – but every time, she stopped herself, knowing that this was supposed to be Finn she was saving those words for…

Along with the words, "I do."

Those were even harder to think, but unlike the others, she couldn't even imagine them leaving her mouth. Once, before Finn had broken up with Quinn and while Rachel was still invisible to him, she'd probably daydreamed of the day coming when she could call herself, 'Mrs. Finn Hudson.' Hell, she'd probably even written it on her notebooks – no, she knew she had, because she still had them.

But now, she hardly ever thought about it – and especially not today. She was too distracted, too worried for Sam. He was her best friend and if something was wrong with him, it was wrong with her, too.

Part of her didn't want to know what it was, because she knew that if she did, it would only hurt worse. But another part of her knew it was her duty to him, as his best friend, to make things right in whatever way she could.

The last person Rachel wanted to talk to that day was Quinn Fabray, but what other choice did she have? It stung a little – knowing Quinn would probably know even if Rachel herself didn't – but this had nothing to do with Quinn. It was all for Sam, and if Rachel couldn't suck it up for him, she knew exactly what it would make her – a word she usually reserved for Quinn, in her Fake Rachel state of mind:

A bitch.

Rachel knew she wasn't, so she swallowed her pride and her worried tears as she walked under the bleachers toward Quinn and her army of cigarette-puffing Skanks.

"Quinn, um…can I talk to you about…something? It's-it's important."

Rachel's palms were sweating. She hadn't remembered being this nervous the last time she was down here – that time, she had been determined; almost less determined than she was to figure out what was wrong with Sam. What she didn't know was whether she was nervous for Sam, or for herself.

Quinn turned around slowly, the scene feeling like something out of a chick flick, or maybe a horror movie in which Quinn was the killer about to strike. It was impossible to know what was behind the aviators she was wearing; not only did this make Rachel nervous, but it also explained why she always seemed to be wearing them lately – that, and she was sure that Quinn was trying to hide a hang-over half the time.

They were both in black today – for some reason, Rachel always felt like she was mourning when she got dressed lately; she was avoiding her usual picks of bright printed skirts and dresses and what Quinn called 'muppet-fur' sweaters – so Rachel didn't seem quite as out-of-place under the bleachers as she usually did. However, even with those sunglasses on and with her blending colors, Rachel could still tell that Quinn was looking at her like she was a tumor.

"What?" Quinn said in a gravelly voice that made it sound like she'd just downed an entire bottle of whiskey (which, as far as Rachel knew, she probably had).

Quinn started to take a few steps toward Rachel, even more menacing than usual in a pair of high-heeled ankle boots that made her tower over the five-foot-one munchkin. As she grinded out the remains of her last cigarette, she took off her sunglasses, revealing bloodshot eyes that looked even more ready to kill than usual.

"I, um…" Rachel stammered. "I meant in private."

An almost evil smile made her way onto Quinn's face as she tossed her pink hair over her shoulder and threw a mocking look back at her Skanks. They all laughed in a way that made it very clear that they were doing so at Rachel; not with her.

"Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of them. Go ahead, Rachel."

Rachel resented the tone in Quinn's voice. Even after they had stopped being friends, Quinn had never spoken to her like that. She was treating Rachel like a child.

"I really can't," Rachel blurted, her cheeks flushing a bright red. Her eyes were starting to water. Biting down on her tongue as hard as she can, she didn't let up until her eyes burned dry and she tasted blood. No way was she going to cry in front of these people. No way.

Quinn's taunting smile faded from her face, making it very clear that she felt as though she was being talked back to – and that she didn't like it one bit. She pressed so close to Rachel that she had to lean back slightly to keep from being touched. Before Quinn could get a word out, Rachel put two and two together – the eyes, the tone, the smell.

"Have you been drinking?" Rachel asked in shock. Quinn was so close that she could practically taste the alcohol on her breath.

That was Quinn's breaking point. She clearly didn't like to be frowned upon, no matter how hard she tried to put on the fake 'I-don't-give-a-damn' attitude. Somehow, it soothed Rachel a little to know this; Quinn couldn't possibly be that drunk if she was retaining this mind state.

Grabbing Rachel roughly by the Peter Pan collar of her dress, Quinn dragged her out from under the bleachers and onto the empty football field. She didn't say a word until she had practically thrown Rachel into the endzone.

"What do you want?!" she snapped, crossing her arms and looking like she was ready to kill.

Rachel suddenly felt ten times more scared than she had when she had first gotten there.

"I, um…Quinn, I…um…"

"Oh, just cut it out! Stop putting on that 'I'm-a-scared-little-girl,' act and cut to the chase," Quinn said, her words slurring ever so slightly. "You're obviously here because you want to ask me about Sam, so just get on with it."

Her attitude wasn't surprising; Finn had archetyped her as an angry drunk, so Rachel had known what to expect ever since smelling the fire on her breath. The part that was more difficult was trying not to take it personally. Rachel had always been sensitive.

It took her awhile to find the words, but when she finally did, she spoke quickly and meekly, as if she were afraid of getting eaten alive if she didn't show her inferiority: "I'm…worried. He…he started to tell me something, but…I don't…I just…could you just tell me what happened?"

Rachel was starting to lose it, the tears slowly rolling down her cheeks, but here, she didn't care as much about how she was seen as she would have in front of all of Quinn's friends, too. Even if Quinn wasn't all there right now, and would probably be judging her twelve times more than she would have sober, it was in Real Rachel's nature to feel comfortable showing her feelings around her old best friend – and it was impossible to keep up the Fake Rachel act when she was feeling like that.

Quinn smirked, finding this all somewhat amusing in her current state. She was completely indifferent to Rachel's tears. Part of it was probably that she was a little drunk; part of it was simply that she didn't care what Rachel said or did. But for some reason, she found Rachel's situation funny in a sadistic way.

"Oh, poor, poor Rachel," Quinn said mockingly, walking in slow circles around Rachel and making it clear that she was sizing up her prey. "She finally knows that the Trouty Mouth she fell in love with isn't as perfect as she is after all."

Rachel could feel her cheeks burning, but not in an embarrassed way this time so much as because she was angry. "I'm not perfect, Quinn."

"Do you want to know what happened or not?" Quinn interrupted snappishly, clearly unhappy at having her monologue cut off.

Feeling small and submissive, Rachel nodded without saying another word, swallowing the lump in her throat.

"Once upon a time, as you very well know, Lady Lips and I used to date," Quinn began, still speaking in that tone that made Rachel feel like she was just a little kid. Fake Rachel probably would have been able to appreciate the drama of the situation despite how scared and alone she felt, but Real Rachel was not liking the ominous direction in which this story was going.

"Sam was the dorkiest thing I ever saw when he moved here. The only redeeming qualities he had were that he was cute, and that he was on the football team…and as a cheerleader, I thought it was my job to take him under my wing," she continued. "I thought I could just mold him into the perfect boy and then send him on his way. Wasn't hard, since I could tell he was into me from the moment he first laid eyes on me.

"Now, Sam's cute, but in case you haven't figured it out yet, he's kind of full of himself." Rachel didn't like hearing Quinn say this about him – maybe because she knew it was true in a way. "He felt like he had to keep up with me – as Finn could tell you, dating the prettiest cheerleader in school takes its toll. Probably regretting he ever did it now that I look like this, I'm sure, but doesn't mean it never happened. But for Trouty – poor, poor Fishface Evans…he was hit twice as hard as any of the other boys I'd ever dated. Thought he never looked good enough for me, so he started going to the gym more and cutting out stuff from his diet. I liked what I was seeing, so I let him keep on doing what he was doing."

Quinn took a pause for impact before saying bluntly, "And then I cheated, and it was 'Bye, bye, Quinn!' I could tell he still loved me, but of course there was nothing I could do about it. At that point, Sam had gotten even more popular than me…obviously, that all changed as soon as we broke up. That only made him crave popularity even more.

"He pretty much stopped eating a couple months after we broke up. Then his parents lost the house, blah blah blah, stress stress stress, prom prom prom – and he hit his breaking point. Passed out, dead on the floor. His mom found him, called my mom, and he woke up in the emergency room. I was there and everything."

Quinn seemed to forget her airs when she said this, and her face took on a distant look, as if she was remembering the scene. It made Rachel cry harder, seeing her like that – trying to imagine what that looked like.

Quinn quickly snapepd back into reality, her eyes flickering from Rachel and then down to the ground as she continued: "Doctors diagnosed him with anorexia, same as my sister, sent him off to some clinic…and that's where he was all summer. Screwed the guy he roomed with and he's never been the same since. Happy now?"

Rachel opened her mouth to reply, but she couldn't make a sound. It felt like there was an invisible hand wrapped around her throat. She was trying to absorb it all, but all she seemed to be able to do was cry. Her head was spinning; her stomach was churning. She felt like she was going to throw up.

_Stopped eating. Anorexia. Passed out. Screwed his roommate. _Words swirled around in Rachel's head until she finally fell to her knees, unable to keep herself up anymore. A wave of nausea and tears overcame her, and she buried her head in her hands.

Quinn looked on from her perch above all else, sober enough to feel guilty. She had known from the beginning that Rachel would have been happier not knowing. But it served her right – shoving her face in other people's business. She could have let it all go, waited until Sam was ready to tell her…yet, Quinn supposed that was why she had told Rachel herself: it would have hurt more coming from him.

The part of her that was still in her right mind wanted to comfort her, or at least let Rachel wipe her nose on her sleeve, but Quinn was frozen still, memories flashing behind her eyelids. Sam in the hospital was the most haunting thing of all. Seeing Rachel cry like this had reminded her of Sam's mother when her son had woken up….

And of herself. Quinn would never be able to live with herself if she admitted that, but seeing Sam wake up was one of the greatest miracles she had ever witnessed. Losing him would have been like losing a brother, and it had reminded her of the sister she had almost lost.

Looking down on Rachel and having nothing else to do or say, her buzz worn off, Quinn walked away so that she could bury her past in another drunken haze. Her Skanks were happy to see her back, and together they laughed about Rachel's teary-eyed state and obvious infatuation with Hobo McBieber, but as she started on her second bottle, all she could think was that Rachel would never have been proud of what she was doing.

Losing her best friend was starting to take its toll, the way losing his first love had taken its toll on Sam. Only, Quinn wasn't going to starve herself for it. Her methods would be a bit more drastic than that.


	24. To The Stage

Finding a Voice

24: To The Stage

Rachel Berry felt like a new person.

She was still broken, still scared for Sam, but it was like her outward image had shattered. It was a baby step, she knew, but there was finally a place where she could be herself – her bedroom.

Even Rachel's bedroom had once been an expression of the person she'd been trying to be. The shelves were lined with trophies – third-grade, Allen County Ohio Junior Misses' Beauty Pageant, first place. Fifth grade, Freedom Elementary Spring Talent Show, first place. Eighth grade, Allen County Ohio Regional Tap Competition, first place. The bulletin board behind her bed had been ridden with posters, playbills, and ticket stubs from every Broadway production she'd seen since her very first musical – Annie, at the age of three.

But perhaps the thing that had been holding her back the most was that Finn Hudson was everywhere she looked, from the glee club's group photo after winning Regionals against the Warblers last year, to a photobooth strip from their first date after reconciling last year. Her mirror had been so cluttered with photos of him that she could barely see herself; her best friend was nowhere to be found on her walls.

In a half-angry, half-terrified, tear-filled blur after coming home from school that day, Sam and his eating disorder constantly in the back of her mind, Rachel had decided enough was enough. No more pretending; no more hiding behind a mask. It seemed petty to her now that she was so worried about impressing a mother who had always been absent in her life, and always would be, now that she knew that Sam had gone to hell and back…

And all because of Quinn. Of all the things she'd heard that day, that had hurt the most. She'd walked into the Skanks' stomping grounds that day scared for Sam, and been scared for Quinn when she'd smelled the liquor on her breath, but once she'd picked herself up and put the pieces back together, she left in a rage, hating Lucy Quinn Fabray and everything she'd done to Sam.

It was difficult for her, knowing that her old best friend had ruined someone's life like that – but it was about time that Rachel realized that Quinn had been right all along. They weren't little kids anymore, and they weren't best friends. That had been a different time, and that time was long gone. The sooner she understood that, the better.

No more lying to herself, or to other people, Rachel had vowed – for Sam. If there was anyone she could give up her false hope for Quinn and her mother for, it was him.

And so when she stomped into her bedroom that day, the first thing she did was grab that pink-painted shoebox out of her top dresser drawer and dump it out on her bed. Blasting the angriest music she had – which just so happened to be P!nk, and really wasn't that angry at all when Rachel thought about it – Rachel got to work.

Down came every picture of Finn Hudson from her mirror, her walls. Rachel in Finn's lap after the championship game last year, her wearing his away jersey and Finn looking completely away from the camera. She stared at the photograph wistfully for a moment. She'd always loved how naturally clueless he'd looked in that photo.

Rachel stopped herself when she realized she was smiling and did a reality check. Finn was the one boy Rachel had loved all through high school…until now. She'd also agreed to marry him. Did she really want these painful reminders in her one sacred place of privacy? No. She didn't.

The photo was torn in half, right across the arm Rachel had wrapped around Finn's neck, splitting the couple in half. Into the trash can it went.

It was like ripping off a Band-Aid – she did it quickly and without thinking, and therefore, it was painless. The couple in their Regionals costumes from sophomore year? Torn in two. The picture of them together at Burt and Carol's wedding? Ripped to pieces. A crazy, mid-laugh shot of Finn that used to be her favorite picture of him? Shredded without a second thought.

The Broadway ticket stubs came down almost twice as quickly. Rachel left a few – a playbill from the first time she'd ever seen Wicked, her ticket to Chicago that she had gone to with Kurt last year. Like it or not, she was always going to be a showtunes kind of gal; it was just too painful to leave so many and have herself reminded of the Broadway dreams she'd crafted for herself to make Shelby and her two dads proud.

When all the damage was done, Rachel stood for a moment in the middle of the room and admired her work. Her heart ached slightly when she saw the mound of shredded pictures on top of her trash can, but when she saw her blank yellow walls, it was already like a huge weight had been lifted off of her shoulders. Her conscience now matched her bedroom: clean.

It took her a moment to absorb the reality of all the memories she'd just torn up and thrown away, but with everything off her chest, Rachel suddenly felt like she could really start anew. The pink shoebox of pictures was twice as full now as it had been the last time she'd really stopped to look, now containing every silly picture she'd ever taken with Sam on top of the piles and piles of old cheerleading trading cards and childhood memories with Quinn and Santana.

It didn't take long for her walls to fill up again. She loved almost every picture of her and Sam together, and – a bit less painlessly – even picked out a few old pictures of she and Quinn, her favorite being the one of she, Santana, and Quinn making a pyramid at her tenth birthday party.

Soon, memories of her and her new-and-old best friends had replaced the lingering ones of Finn. Where there had once been a picture of Rachel and Finn as Brad and Janet from Rocky Horror, there was now last year's prom picture of Rachel and Mercedes sandwiching Sam. A photobooth strip of she and Sam at the mini golf place downtown had replaced the old one of her and Finn. The one time she, Sam, and Kurt had ever done anything together – a scary movie marathon at Rachel's – was now pinned to her bulletin board, Sam's hair still wet from swim practice and Kurt's head on her shoulder.

The last step was her laptop. With one click, the background was changed from Finn's senior picture to the group photo of the girls in the hotel room in New York last year for Nationals.

Another subconscious click and she had looked up 'eating disorders' on Google.

Rachel took a deep breath. She hadn't realized she was doing it, but here she was, with a million links about ready to tell her a million facts about her best friend's secret nightmare.

With a shaky hand, she clicked on one, quickly wrapping her arms around her chest as she settled into her desk chair so she could read.

_Anorexia Nervosa and Body Dysmorphic Disorder_

Even just hearing how scary those words sounded, how ominous they were looming over hers and Sam's heads, was too much. It made it sound like what it was: a disease, and the thought of Sam handling a problem so serious was enough to bring tears to her eyes again.

Rachel sobbed quietly as she read through blurry tears.

_Statistics:_

_Every 1 in 100 women in the United States has some kind of eating disorder._

_Only 10% of people diagnosed with _anorexia nervosa_ are male._

_Only 10% of people with anorexia nervosa seek treatment, and only 35% seek treatment at a specialized treatment facility. Men are less likely to seek treatment for an eating disorder._

_In 20% of cases, anorexia nervosa is fatal._

Smacking her laptop shut as if she had just seen a picture of a giant cockroach, Rachel buried her head in her pillow and began to cry as hard as she could.

_Fatal._ Sam could have died. He could still die, if he still wasn't okay.

Was he? Was Sam okay?

"Sam's not dead," she reminded herself through tears. "He's fine. He's not dead."

But it was no use. Her tears fell heavier and harder down her face; there was little doubt in Rachel's mind that she wouldn't be able to stop until she had cried him a waterfall.

Her shoulders shaking, her lip quivering, Rachel Berry had never felt more helpless before in her life.

It took strength – strength that Rachel didn't have – but eventually, she gave up and dialed the one phone number she had never had a reason to call.

The tears stung Rachel's cheeks as the phone rang one, three, six times, but not as much as it stung when the call went to voicemail.

_Leave a message at the tone. When you have finished recording, you may hang up or press 1 for more options. To leave a callback number, press 5._

The phone beeped.

"Mom? I need you."


	25. Blood On My Hands

Finding a Voice

25: Blood On My Hands

"Hey, Mom."

Rachel took a deep breath before stepping into Shelby's office. It had confused her when Shelby had chosen to move back to Ohio after finally getting to New York, especially when she had Beth; it just seemed like so much upheaval for a new mother…

And, more than that: torture for Rachel. Why would Shelby have chosen to move back to Ohio of all places – let alone get a job at Rachel's school, of all places, and begin a rival show choir, attacking the one thing that Rachel lovedmore than anything?

She probably hadn't thought of it, Rachel considered, but then she remembered: of course Shelby hadn't thought of it. Shelby would never have thought of Rachel. She had her own daughter now.

Rachel was almost choking back tears when Shelby looked up from her work back at Rachel. She felt angry at herself for giving in and calling her, weak for having to rely on her absent mother when she had thought she was finally making progress, but – most of all – scared for Sam.

Because that topped everything, Rachel was able to bite back her other emotions and look her mother in the eye to say, "You never returned my phone call."

Shelby sighed, seeming frustrated as she began to absentmindedly sort paperwork into neat, organized piles on her desk. "I didn't see a reason to."

"Shelby, I need your help," Rachel blurted.

Three of those words were the ones that Rachel regarded as the most difficult in the English language: "I need help." Rachel was stubbornly independent, never one to rely on others – yet here she was, and she had to admit it: she couldn't do this on her own. It would take a lot more than what Rachel was capable of offering to save Sam, and on God's word, she was going to do it, no matter what it took.

She was going to have to finally admit that sometimes, a girl just needed a little help.

Rachel's heart pounded in her chest as Shelby swiveled around in her office chair to face her, looking chagrined by her daughter's presence. Her lips were pursed, her hands were neatly folded in her lap but not even a seismograph could have detected the quiver in them; it was so faint, and overall, Shelby looked deeply, deeply annoyed.

In reality, she was, but it was muddled by disappointment and pity, as well as love – one emotion Shelby had mastered the art of holding back. Therefore, Rachel was only able to read the annoyance and disappointment, and at this, her lips sank into a deep frown that creased from her forehead down into her mind itself.

Shelby was the last person Rachel had wanted to go to, but she had a way of getting people to speak – and though she wasn't the resident guidance counselor at McKinley, there was no one else Rachel had known to ask when the dire circumstances of Sam's condition had sunk in.

Rachel was suddenly reminded of why she had been avoiding this when Shelby sighed.

"Rachel, you know why I didn't return your calls," she said soberly. "I…I can't help you with this."

Shelby stood up abruptly, the shuffling of her papers beginning to become less and less methodical. Piles spilled into other piles; there was no meaning to what she was doing anymore other than that she was done. Off the back of her chair, she grabbed her coat, her heels flicking against the ground as she walked with threatening clicks.

It was the guilt. Shelby felt guilty. Rachel had called numerous times, left numerous messages, and explained in detail what was wrong, and yet it was not her friend's sad horror story that plagued her – it was Rachel.

Rachel was why she couldn't help, and yet Shelby knew that Rachel was why she should – and, quite frankly, had to.

But she still wouldn't do it.

Shelby walked past her daughter with ease, yet the guilt took control almost as easily and stopped her at the door.

She opened her mouth, prepared to offer…something. Anything.

No words came out.

Rachel toughened up. At her sides, her hands clenched the fabric of her coat. She put on a brave face.

_For Sam_, she told herself, but inside, she knew it was for herself, too. She wanted to smile at this – at her next step forward – but knew she couldn't, and even if she tried, she wouldn't have been able to. It was inevitable.

"I'm not asking you to do this as my mom," Rachel said, trying her best to be persuasive. "I'm asking you to do this as a teacher. It's your job to look out for your students. But as your daughter, I _need _you to do this for me."

She knew she was pleading, she knew she was on the verge of tears again, yet she couldn't stop herself from continuing: "I'll never ask for anything else from you ever again; I just need to know that Quinn and Sam are going to be okay."

Shelby stiffened at the mention of Quinn. She knew it was wrong, especially when she didn't feel the same way about her biological daughter, but she had always harbored a soft spot for the girl. Maybe it was because she was Beth's mother, or maybe it was because she reminded Shelby of herself at that age…maybe it was that she wanted to be like her. Maybe she just wanted to feel young again.

But Shelby had seen what Quinn had become. She had also seen what she, herself, was becoming, and she didn't like either of those things.

She found that she could no longer keep silent, yet that she just didn't have it in her to help.

"Rachel, I'm sorry," Shelby said. "As a teacher and as your mom. But I'm not a guidance counselor. The best advice I could give you right now is to talk to a therapist and find out what the next step is from a professional point of view. But honestly, I can't help you."

Rachel bit her lip. She didn't want to play the guilt card – nor did she see how appealing to Shelby's human side would help, since as far as she could tell, she had none – but it was her only chance.

_For Sam_, she thought again. She pulled at her coat even more tightly.

"I saw a family therapist my sophomore year," Rachel admitted quietly. It took guts to say it out loud, to remind herself of the painful memory, but it was all she had left.

"_It's nice to meet you Rachel," the therapist had said, peering over the frames of her glasses across the room at Rachel. "Would you like to tell me a little about yourself?"_

_She had been sitting on a chair upholstered with stained, faded floral-printed fabric. It was the type of furniture you would find in the home of an old cat lady – the kind that looked inviting, but was truly deceiving, not at all as comfortable as it looked. _

_Rachel's head was down, staring at her hands, which were folded delicately atop her jittery legs. _

"_My name is Rachel Berry," she said quietly. "I'm fifteen years old. I live with my two gay dads. I was taken from my surrogate mother when I was an infant. I like to sing. I like to dance. And I want to live in New York someday."_

_The speech sounded rehearsed – because it was. Rachel watched telivision; while she had been on the treadmill that night, she'd put on thousands of psychological thrillers and anticipated the questions she could expect to be asked (and fought back nightmares later that night, regretting that she had watched all those movies). All that morning and afternoon, she had been writing in her notebook – the same one she would later take notes about Sam in during their interviews – the kinds of answers she thought the therapist would want to hear and could work with._

_If Rachel had looked back at that notebook, it would be like reading a transcript of their conversation. The therapist said exactly what she had expected her to: "And how do you feel about the way you grew up? Was it strange for you, to have two homosexual parents?"_

"_No. It wasn't strange for me. I didn't know anything different."_

"_What was growing up like in the absence of your mother?"_

_Rachel paused to swallow thickly before answering: "Difficult."_

This flashback played through Rachel's head as she continued to speak: "It was the worst thing I've ever experienced. There's something different about talking to someone who you know is analyzing you than just being able to tell someone who you actually trust what you're going through."

Shelby looked down at her shoes. They were designer, and clearly did not belong on the crappy linoleum floors of a Midwestern high school. Never before had she questioned her decision to move back to Ohio so heavily.

"Rachel, I-"

A strong feeling of hate like she had never felt before overcame Rachel Berry. Fake Rachel had suppressed her anger at her mother for so long, focusing on her Broadway dreams instead and hoping that maybe just maybe if she made it big onstage Shelby would finally notice her, but the Real Rachel was coming out, and her voice was screaming, _"This is it! I'm done with you!"_

But, for Sam's sake, she couldn't be. She couldn't be done just yet. Her anger at this fact translated into emotions, plain and clear across her face.

Angry tears burned Rachel's cheeks as she screamed her response: "Start caring about someone other than yourself for once! Please! This is all I've ever asked you to do, other than sew me a dress for Lady Gaga week last year in glee club, and I hardly think that counts!"

Shelby closed her eyes, touching her fingers to her temples, praying that Beth would never be this angsty of a teenager. Part of her couldn't blame Rachel, but every part of her was overwhelmed. She was blinded by it, and simply couldn't see how any of this was her fault.

Shelby tried to remain calm and rational – to be the adult when Rachel couldn't be. This was the part of parenting that scared her, and ultimately why she had removed herself from Rachel's life: how had the sweet, sleepy infant Shelby had held close in her arms at the hospital seventeen years ago blossomed into a young woman, rightfully emotional and frustrated by the fact that she had never had a mother?

"Rachel, you're being irrational," Shelby said, though it sounded like she was trying to convince herself rather than her daughter. "Not only am I not trained for this, but I'm not about to start a therapy group! Raising a child is very time consuming work and I need to focus my attention on the people in _my_ life right now."

Rachel was seeing red; that much was obvious. She was on one level, and the idea of calming down was on an entirely different planet.

"You don't have to lie to me!" she yelled. "I know you don't want to do this because it's Quinn and neither of you like each other very much, but please! I need someone to listen to her and get through to her…and_ SAM COULD DIE_! A person has got to have a lot of hate in them to want someone to die, and I know he's a fighter, but I can't stop worrying that one of these days, his eating disorder's going to push him too far and he's not going to be able to survive it! So please, just stop thinking about what you want and do what you know is right, Mom!"

Shelby almost wanted to laugh. There was so much that Rachel was misreading, that she was too young and naïve to understand, but getting through to her was clearly more important than trying to explain the things she would eventually learn with age.

Instead, she sighed. It was time to be the mother Rachel had never had.

"Look, Rachel," Shelby tried to explain, "I know you probably won't believe this, but I was the 'Save Humanity' type when I was your age, too, and I got a lot of weight thrown on my shoulders because I was always trying to help everybody. But my problem was that I could never recognize when things were out of my hands and when I needed to turn things over to someone who actually knew what they were doing."

"Mom, listen to me," Rachel urged through tears.

Shelby snapped. It felt wrong to hear those words coming from Rachel's mouth.

"Stop calling me that. You know very well that I am not your mother. Your mother is the person who raised you, and I…I can't make a claim to that," she hissed through gritted teeth, frustrated with herself more than she was frustrated with Rachel.

Shelby wasn't the only one disappointed in herself. Rachel was suddenly sure that she had failed.

_I'm sorry, Sam…Quinn._

It was all over.

"Fine," Rachel said, wiping away her tears. "Goodbye, Shelby. I hope you're happy with yourself. I'm going to go see what else I can do to keep my best friend alive."

She turned on the heel of her mary janes and walked away, leaving her regrets up in the air, hanging over Shelby's head. Shelby hoped that this would mark the end of their long, complicated saga, yet she couldn't find closure in the guilt she felt toward her daughter.

Late that night, Shelby tossed and turned in her bed until, at approximately 12:01 AM, she got up to tend to a crying Beth. When she returned, she found herself logged onto her laptop, googling '_anorexia nervosa.'_


	26. Dismantle Repair

Finding a Voice

_Author's Note: SUR-PRIIIISE! Happy holidays, more than a month in advance! As a present to you all, I picked up my blast from the past again and decided to write another chapter. Granted, I know it's been forever, and since I'm in the midst of NaNoWriMo and my first Les Mis fanfic (gahh! Exciting!) updates may be erratic, but I felt like I owed it to myself and to you all to finish this. And, without further ado, here is chapter 26 of __Finding a Voice__! Did you all miss me? _

26: Dismantle Repair

Rain thundered outside while Rachel wept.

The only part of that Sam knew about while he stood outside was the rain. It beat down on his head, soaking through his hair and clothes and blinding his vision. Rachel's porch provided some protection, but not enough to make a difference.

In the end, it was the rain that finally motivated him to ring the doorbell. Nothing else could have done it, save for the fact that he knew that if he stood out here much longer, he'd get sick and wouldn't see Rachel's face again for the next week.

Rachel looked up from her tear-stained pillow as she heard the doorbell over the Avril Lavigne she'd been playing. Rachel had designated background music for every occasion – showtunes for when she was happy, anthems for when she was on a mission, pop ballads for when she was depressed.

"Coming!" she yelled, hoping her voice didn't reflect how weak she felt.

Catching a glimpse of her mascara streaked face in the mirror, Rachel quickly wiped away the smudged makeup and wet sobs from her cheeks before taking a deep breath of composure and racing down the stairs.

When she answered the door, there he was on her porch, looking like a wet, blond sheepdog. Rachel wanted nothing more than to look like she hadn't been crying just now, but she had to face it – with everything that had surfaced lately, she was just overwhelmingly relieved to see him alive. The tears kept coming. She stepped out on the porch, hoping that maybe the rain would mask it a little bit.

Reading those websites and blogs and library books and testimonials on what it was like to struggle with an eating disorder had been like a horror movie marathon followed by a horrible nightmare – only, this was real, not just a dream. She couldn't snap herself out of this one.

And it wasn't the big secret Rachel had hoped for. Sam could sense it – the way she was melting like boiled spaghetti. He knew her. He knew she loved the color pink, that she loved being short but hated her thighs, and that, for whatever reason, she knew all of the cheers the Cheerios barked at the football games. And he knew that the cause of her tears had to be because of him.

The guilt tore at Sam's stomach, hurting more than the frozen shivers induced by the rain pouring over his head or the look in Rachel's eyes. Something was wrong. She wasn't smiling like usual, she had nothing to say for once, and she wasn't even dressed the way she normally was.

The shock of it hit him so hard; he had to say something. "Rachel, are you wearing pants?"

It seemed a silly, trivial question, but Rachel understood how it was meant to be translated: _Rachel, are you okay? _And no, she wasn't okay, and he was to blame. But the words fell on the long list of things that Rachel wanted to say but couldn't. She wanted to fall into his arms, crying. She wanted to call him stupid and hug him so tightly; he could barely breathe. She wanted to tell him she lo-

No. No, no, no, no, no. Fake Rachel grabbed the thought around the neck and threw it against the wall. The words fell to the back of her mind, unrecognizable.

_I am Rachel Barbra Berry, soon to be Hudson. I do not compromise for anybody. I do not worry about anybody…_

Except Sam Evans. Rachel stepped out onto the porch. At least there, if she cried, no one would know it wasn't just the rain.

Except Sam Evans. Because he was the one person who knew everything about her. He knew her strengths, her faults, her weaknesses, and the way her face contorted when it was in tears. _Real _tears.

Only one person besides him knew those tears, and that was Shelby, because all of Rachel's other tears? Fake. They belonged to her persona, her mask, and they came out all the time, from when she was singing to when Finn was bending down on one knee with a ring in his hand. Even those hadn't been real tears, although they should have been – tears of mourning, for her lost life. If she married him – _when _she married him, Fake Rachel corrected – she became just another one on a long list of Lima losers who never left this cow town. Indistinguishable. Neither Real nor Fake Rachel could deny it: when she married Finn Hudson, she was accepting that she was going nowhere in life.

Sam's vision came back to haunt her: the one of him and his children at her first Broadway headliner in New York City. Him and his children. _Their children_. She imagined what they might look like. Blonde, she hoped, with big lips and a big Jewish nose. The best and worst of both of them.

Rachel broke down.

She fell to her knees, weeping with everything she'd been holding back. She didn't have to say a word, and Sam didn't have to think twice. He bent over her, shielding her from the rain – Hell, from reality – and engulfed her in his arms. Her body shook with seismic tremors. Sam rested his chin on her head. He had a vague notion of shushing her, but why should he have?

"Let it all out, Rach," he said, and she cried harder.

Sam stroked her hair, along for the emotional rollercoaster. He had forgotten why he had come here in the first place. Why had he come here?

_I have to tell her._

_Tell her what?_

_The truth._

For the first time in what felt like ages, Sam Evans began to cry, too. He didn't trust any other person enough to be weak in front of them, but Rachel – he always felt weak in front of her, anyways, and he knew she could tell. Rachel saw right through him.

Together, they quivered like an earthquake, wrapped in each other's arms. Crying was easier than saying the things that needed to be said. Being weak gave Sam the strength to say those things anyways:

"My dad never got a job this summer, and we were never moving."

Rachel looked up at him, her eyes puffy and red, her skin streaked with tears. She said nothing – only looked at him, wide-eyed like Bambi. She was a mess; she knew. Sam thought she looked more beautiful than she ever had before.

Sam looked back at her, making contact with those big brown eyes and feeling like his entire world had shattered. His insides pleaded: _Say something, please. _He had to know they were okay. He knew how she felt about lies. Dishonesty was the only unforgivable fault.

Rachel opened her mouth, and Sam's heartbeat quickened. All of a sudden, he no longer wanted her to say anything. He knew what was coming – some variation of the obvious:

_You asshole; why did you lie to me? _

_We're through. _

_I don't need your help on my project, and I don't need you now. _

Of everything Sam feared, he feared hearing those words the most: "I don't need you."

But it wasn't what she said.

Rachel opened her mouth and admitted, "I know about your eating disorder."

Sam felt as if his clothes had been torn from his body. He was naked. It was the one part of him he'd thought he'd kept well-hidden from her, and he'd blown it. She was worried. He could see it. It was the second scariest idea of his life: Rachel, worried about him. The last thing he had ever wanted.

In this most inopportune moment, Sam became suddenly overcome with the thought of kissing her. Then he remembered the thin, silver chain she wore around her neck, and what hung at the bottom of it. Only, she was not wearing it.

Rachel cracked a thin smile, one that could not hide her true emotions. She was dying inside. Sam was bare to her. What did he know about her? Nothing. He didn't know about her two personalities; he didn't know about the two sides of her, vying for control of her head at all times. He didn't know about the nagging voice of Fake Rachel, the same sound as her own but completely different in all else. It made her sick. For a second, she thought she might throw up.

Sam wanted to kiss her. He really, really, _really _wanted to kiss her.

So he consoled himself by pressing his lips to the palm of her hand and saying, "I'm okay," because he had a feeling it was what she needed to hear. And, for once, it wasn't a lie.

Rachel absorbed Sam into her arms again, and for a few brief moments, they were one person, together in all senses of the word. Five minutes later, the world resumed turning, and the reality of their separation flew into Sam's gut like a ton of bricks.


	27. Alone Together

Finding a Voice

27: Alone Together

_Author's Note: DON'T SAY IT; I ALREADY KNOW. I suck :P Sorry for keeping you waiting so long. If any of you are still reading this, thank you so much for sticking with me despite my frustrating track record of forgetting to update. I promise at some point, you will see the ending of this story. Just bear with me here, my lovelies. And without further adieu, chapter 27 it is!_

Sam lay awake in bed, thinking of everything that had come to pass that night.

Sam had told Rachel everything. He had told her about the sick hunger for popularity, about how Quinn had destroyed him, about his fling with Trace, and about wanting to die for a couple months after. He told her about the transition from forcing himself to work out more and eat less, to not eating anything at all, to slowly starting to nibble again, until Mr. Shuester had snapped at him that fateful day in the choir room and he had begun to lose his appetite.

Sam explained how eating was the one thing he could control, and how, he supposed, that choosing not to eat was just his way of coping nowadays…at first, it might just have been his way of being good enough for Quinn – skinny and muscular and hot enough for Quinn. But then, when she broke up with him, it became his way of regaining his power.

More than anything, though, Sam told her about what it felt like to lose his voice.

"Have you ever felt completely powerless, Rach?" he asked her.

Rachel just bit her lip and nodded, tears welling up in her eyes.

_Every day, _she wanted to say, but for whatever reason, even though he was being so honest with her, she just couldn't make the words come out.

Despite the tidal wave relief of getting everything off his chest finally, that truly wasn't the part that stuck with Sam the most. The part that stuck with him the most was the way they had acted that night. For the first time, their friendship had felt like something more.

Sam had loved Rachel for a long time – longer than he could admit to himself without laughing, because it just seemed so silly to have gone through all that trouble for Quinn when maybe there had always been another girl for him – someone that he had maybe always wanted more, even if he didn't realize it until now. But he was beginning to believe that maybe it wasn't just him. Maybe there was something there.

Rachel would slowly move into him as they talked, until he felt her thigh graze his and looked down to meet her eyes – those big, brown eyes. And then she would look away with all the innocence of a deer caught in headlights, slowly inching away again and tucking her hands under her knees.

"My brown eyed girl," he whispered to the ceiling with a laugh. Then, Sam quieted himself, remembering that he wasn't alone and that Stevie or Stacy could wake up any minute now.

Once, they almost kissed. Or maybe that was just how Sam had convinced himself to remember it. Whether it was real or not, this was the memory Sam played over and over again like a song on repeat.

He'd just finished telling her about his stay in rehab when he felt something touch him ever so softly. Sam looked down. It was Rachel's hand, small and thin, folded delicately and consolingly over his knee.

"Sam, you should never have to feel powerless," she told him solemnly, "especially in relationships. You are in control of who you hang out with, who you date, who you kiss, and when."

A warmness spread inside of him from head to toe, making Sam certain that this crazy euphoria he felt was real love. And this was not what he had felt for Quinn.

Inside of him, something had finally clicked: Rachel was right.

And instead of savoring that moment of sweet bliss, he came to his own realization for the first time.

"Rachel, I'm bi," he blurted.

Rachel actually laughed. Sam was about to frown when he heard her say, "Sam, you really think I care about that? You don't have to 'come out' to me."

Sam smiled and shook his head. "No, I know that now." He paused before saying with his most powerful voice ever, "I _wanted_ to."

Rachel grinned and met his eyes. They were green and safe and felt like home. Slowly, the hand that was on Sam's thigh slid up to his waist, making his heartbeat skyrocket and his spirits soar.

Rachel tilted her head, looking into those green eyes through the cover of her eyelashes.

And, surprisingly, it wasn't her – the girl with the boyfriend, the _fiancée_ – who stopped it. Even though she had every reason to stop what was about to happen, it wasn't her who did. To her, this felt right.

It was Sam who had held off. He'd seen that stupid fucking ring dangling from that chain around her neck. And here he was, laying awake in bed, regretting every second of it.

With a sigh, Sam tipped his head down. In Rachel's head, the green eyes morphed into Finn's brown ones, giving her a look of contempt. She settled to press her lips against the soft blond hair atop his head, still chopped uneven from her impromptu hairdressing.

His head still burned where her lips had touched.

It couldn't have actually happened. It was all in Sam's imagination. That was the only explanation for how she had acted today in school – she had completely ignored him. Even in glee club, when she was usually, at the very least, cordial, even when Finn was around, glaring over his shoulder and making threatening hand gestures when he thought his fiancée wasn't looking, Rachel had ignored him.

Little did he know that her hands had been shaking the whole time, butterflies taking flight in her stomach and her heart competing in a horserace in her chest. All bets were off. There was no Fake Rachel; no Real Rachel. The lines had been blurred, and she simply didn't know what to do with it.

Fake Rachel hated it. There was no home for her anymore. But Real Rachel…all she felt was confused. Because even though most of it had been an act, she supposed that there had always been a small part of her that had truly grown to love and appreciate Finn for all he did for her. She supposed it had grown off her empathy for him – for the fact that he didn't have a father, while Rachel had never had a mother – and that this small way in which they were the same had blossomed into something more.

But sympathy wasn't something you married for. Love was. And even Real Rachel hated to admit when she had screwed up.

Rachel loved him, didn't she? She loved him, she loved him, she loved him.

_I love you, Sam Evans. _She tried to imagine herself saying it.

Maybe that was why she had avoided him all day – because she was scared that the first second she opened her mouth, those were the words that were going to come out.

Sam lay awake in bed, thinking of everything that had come to pass that night. And nowhere in that racing head of his had he even begun to consider that maybe, just maybe, Rachel was awake thinking about him, too.


	28. Not That Girl

Finding a Voice

Chapter 28: Not That Girl

_Author's Note: I'm back, bitches! And I'm planning on messing with your feels, hardcore! MWAHAHAHAHA! Just kidding guys…well, kind of. I love you all, though! Okay, sorry. This note basically had no real purpose. It's late. I'm delirious. On with the story now…_

"Rachel, we need to talk."

Finn uttered these words with an urgency that frightened her. His voice had always had a certain power over her, whether he was speaking or singing (although especially when he was singing), and this was no exception. Rachel felt her pulse grow rapid, her heart dancing in circles around her chest in fear.

All she did to answer him was nod. Blindly, Rachel followed him out of the choir room – the bell had just rung, anyways; who cared about her next class? Finn walked through the hallway with determination; not next to her, but _in front of _her, making the nature of their relationship completely and utterly clear to the innocent bystanders they passed.

Rachel wrapped her fingers tenderly around the ring that hung so near to her throat, but it did not comfort her. If anything, the reminder of her pressing engagement only made it worse.

_I love you, Finn Hudson. _Rachel tested out the words as she followed the angry man in front of her. But the only emotion she managed to feel was sadness. Even Fake Rachel agreed with her on this.

Something had changed. Ever since that night, when Rachel had thought those five words together for the first time – _I love you, Sam Evans _– something about the little game she played with Finn ceased to feel right. For the first time in her life, the lines between the 'Fake' and 'Real' Rachels had been blurred.

Rachel was simply being. The feeling of it filled her with such ecstasy that she seemed not to walk through the hallways, but float. And then she saw Finn, and something changed. She came down to earth, she touched her feet to the ground, she no longer flew. She walked.

With Sam, she had always felt like one of his comic book characters: powerful. Invincible. Sexy, even.

They stopped in the auditorium. Finn stood on the stage, probably so he could look down on her, as he was so very fond of doing to everyone around him. His hands were on his hips; he commanded the stage like a tyrant. It reminded Rachel of sophomore year, when they had read Julius Caesar: _He doth bestride the narrow world like a Colossus…_

"You've changed," Finn accused.

Rachel could only shrug. What was a girl supposed to say to something like that?

"Of course I've changed," she answered. "Who isn't changing?"

_You're not, _Rachel thought bitterly, but she didn't say that out loud. It seemed almost foreign to her, to feel this deep level of contempt for the man she had once been so hopelessly in love with. Yet again, she had to ask herself: had Real Rachel ever really loved him?

Yes, she supposed that she had, in her own way, loved Finn Hudson in all senses of the word, in all the various forms of her being. Whether that love had been platonic or romantic, Rachel didn't know; she was unable to distinguish the two, as both had undoubtedly existed in her heart for him.

But Rachel, being human, was able to recognize easily when those feelings were gone, no matter what form they took. And all she felt now, when she looked at Finn Hudson, was the ice flowing through her veins, freezing slowly.

"You've been hanging out with Sam too much," Finn continued, seemingly ignorant of her previous comment. "You never want to go out with me. You don't pick up your phone when I call. You don't answer my text messages. Some days you don't even wear your engagement ring. What am I supposed to think, Rachel?"

Finn jumped down from the stage with a thud that made Rachel's heart skip a beat, and not in the good way. Her hand flew to her chest; she emitted a quiet, "Oh," of surprise. It reminded her of the original Broadway production of Beauty and the Beast…Finn, of course, was the Beast. But she couldn't bring herself to love the beast within him in nearly the same way that Belle had loved her prince.

Yet again, maybe Sam was the Beast. Maybe Finn was Gaston. Maybe Rachel was not the one at fault.

Those thoughts quickly escalated to the idea of Finn standing on that stage, singing "Me" with great melodrama, glorifying himself and his muscular form, and speculating on the number of "strapping young boys" the couple would, hypothetically, produce in the event of their unfortunate union.

Rachel had to stop herself before she erupted with laughter, knowing that it would be entirely inappropriate of her. Even so, she couldn't help but think: Sam would have let me laugh. He would have laughed at it, too.

Erasing the smirk from her face, Rachel quickly rose to defend herself: "I'm sorry, Finn. I…I've been busy; that's all."

It was a poor excuse, she knew, but it was all she had. Finn was not convinced. Neither was she.

"Rachel, we're still getting married, right?" he blurted.

Rachel gulped. "Of…of course."

She wanted to hit herself – no, more than that: she wanted to laugh. Even in the moment of truth, Rachel still could not bring herself to stand up to him. She couldn't bring herself to be honest with him, either, though – to give him the news that would break his little heart in two. On one hand, Rachel wasn't quite sure what she was afraid of; on the other, Rachel knew exactly what she would regret if she – finally; for the first time of her life, even – spoke up for herself.

The words seemed to console Finn, but only a little bit. He paced the floor in front of her, walking back and forth and back and forth and back and forth in an endless loop that was starting to make Rachel a little dizzy.

All of a sudden, Finn stopped, and looked her in the eyes. Rachel felt suddenly uncomfortable with the way that he seemed able to stare straight into her soul with just one glance.

"Rachel, I know you, and I know when you're lying….you don't want to do this, do you?"

Tears welled up in her eyes. A lump rose in her throat. Rachel shook her head no.

Finn sighed. He ran a hand through his hair; did a few pivot turns back and forth and back and forth.

Finally, he said, "Well then I guess there's only one thing left to do."

Finn held out his open palm. Without having to ask, Rachel understood. She reached up behind her neck and unlatched the clasp of that silver chain. She gently placed the necklace, ring and all, in Finn's hand.

For the first time, she noticed the engraving on the inside of the band: _I love you, for now and forever. XOXO. Finn._

Finn closed his hand around the necklace. He didn't say anything; he wasn't quite sure what he could say, to be honest.

Finn looked at her, pursed his lips, and nodded silently to himself, as reassurance of some unknown fact which Rachel could only make assumptions toward at this point. Rachel suddenly felt her bare, naked soul as it was, stripped down to the bone. She felt the emptiness of the hole in her chest where everything they'd once had between them had once been, and the rift that stood between she and her former lover.

Rachel took a step toward Finn; gave him a kiss on the cheek. Part of her wanted to cry, to mourn, but some types of loss were just too deep for such displays of emotion.

"Goodbye, Finn," she said solemnly. "And, just so you know, this isn't the end of what we had. I think a part of me will always still love you. It's just…it's time for me to move on. It's time for both of us to move on, really."

Rachel paused to swallow, lowering her head so that her bangs fell into her eyes. "I'm just not the girl you fell in love with anymore, I guess. And, somehow…I think I might be okay with that."

Rachel looked up at Finn and smiled a smile that was fake in an entirely different kind of way. She wasn't pretending to be a completely different person for him this time. No; instead, she was showing Finn Hudson the person that she really was, and somehow, despite her euphoria at finally ending the nightmare she was living with her strange split personalities, it still managed to wound her in ways that were indescribable and previously unimaginable to her.

As she walked away from Finn for the last time, something occurred to her suddenly – something which she was only now beginning to realize about love: love for one person cannot replace the love we have for another. It can only displace it, leaving us hollow inside from the love we have lost, yet somehow still whole in the love that still remains.

Rachel was in love with Sam Evans; that much was irrevocably, undeniably, devastatingly true. However, no matter how much she loved him, there would always be an empty hole in her heart – even if it eventually healed to about the size of a pinhole – shaped in the image of Finn Hudson's handprint.


	29. Without Love

Finding a Voice

Chapter 29: Without Love

Rachel rapped sharply on the door of Sam's motel room, her knock sounding as strong and rejuvenated as she felt. She was more steady and sure of herself than she had ever been before.

Ever since she and Finn broke up, Rachel had had one thing on her mind: the future. And surprisingly enough, it wasn't her future with Sam that she obsessed herself with. Maybe it was because there was a tacit certainty in that – that he was who she was meant to be with, and no matter how much it made her feel like a schoolgirl to say so, it never dwindled in its truthfulness – or perhaps because her newfound freedom had brought new worries into the light.

Once upon a time, Rachel had spent every waking hour concerned with Finn; whether her inclinations were positive or negative, regarding her quiet fear of him or the painful yet all-consuming nature of their romance, he was always in the vanguard of her mind.

Now, in retrospect, their relationship just seemed like a device: almost some kind of sick, twisted acting strategy, carefully designed to keep her in character at all times. When Rachel could think of nothing but Finn, she was stuck in the persona of the person she had become with him: the Fake Rachel who had the same unrelenting ambition and Broadway dreams as her mother, who was actually worth that mother's attention. It was a role she was comfortable with, and Finn was a person she had become strangely soothed by. To be frank, her feelings for Sam were so terrifying that she'd seen no solution but to avoid him, to deny them, and to marry Finn, forcing her to bury any feelings she'd ever had for another man.

Rachel wasn't scared of Sam anymore. She felt enlightened. Rather, what terrified her was where her life was headed without her marriage, without the cushion of Fake Rachel's own desires to fall back on.

The love she felt for Sam wasn't the same kind of love she'd coerced herself into feeling for Finn. With Finn, she was afraid not to think about him all the time, afraid to come to the right conclusion: that without the superficial façade floating on the surface of her thoughts, the truth would be revealed, and she would know in her heart that she _didn't _love him, that she _wasn't _Fake Rachel, and that Shelby Corcoran was _never _going to give her a chance, whether she went into musical theatre or journalism.

But with Sam, it was a quiet love, one that wasn't tumultuous or complicated. She didn't have to make it the focus of her life to know that he was the light of it, that he made her happy, and that none of that was ever going to change. With Sam, she didn't need the constant thought of him to comfort her, to reassure her that she still felt the same as she did yesterday and that she would still feel the same tomorrow: she just _knew_. And she couldn't explain how she knew, or why she loved him so, but simply understanding that the feeling would never die was enough for her. _Sam _was enough for her.

Without the certainty of their relationship to worry her, a psychological phenomenon had ignited itself in Rachel's brain. Suddenly, she felt the need to find a new worry to replace the old one: a placebo that was just as obsessive as her love for Finn had once been. And that worry started with a big ol' capital "C": College.

Rachel once expected to live in New York City with her mom, who had once been working there as an actress and later, in the schools. She'd looked at schools like NYU, NYADA, and Julliard, pronouncing that anything lesser was condemned as "not good enough for her." Her Daddies never questioned it.

Fake Rachel had an ego. But Real Rachel was much more humble. She was completely different. And that was why she had to start all over. Her previous college application essay simply wouldn't do.

She already had an idea in mind: to replace her old essay with the exposé she was writing about Sam. After all, the best way to share her passion with the world was to write about the one person she loved just as much as the act of writing itself. But first, she had to pick a new college – a new dream. That dream was Northwestern University in Chicago.

And that was why she came here today: she had a new dream. Now she just needed someone to share it with. More than anything, she wanted that person to be Sam.

Her greatest fear was being met with disapproval. The look in his eye when he found out she was about to marry a man she didn't love was the most terrifying thing she'd ever seen. But she knew Sam, and she knew that he liked to reciprocate the favors that were done for him: if she could accept him for who he was, maybe, just maybe, he could accept her.

She clutched her notebook in her arms and waited.

To be honest, Sam had been sitting in a fold-up chair behind the door, waiting for her to come a-calling. He knew her so well that he'd had no doubt in his heart that she would. Waiting had been torture, but now that she was here, pretending he _hadn't _been waiting was the worst agony of all. It was like being the first one up on Christmas morning – having to wait for the last groggy person in the family to stumble down the stairs so you could open presents. It was like being the first one up, _and _already knowing what your presents were, leaving you sitting before them, hands hovering over the wrapping paper, just waiting.

Waiting.

Sam had waited long enough. In one swift motion, he folded his chair, hid it in the closet, and opened the door.

He cleared his throat. He ran a hand through his hair. Both nervous habits of his, Rachel recognized.

"Um, hi," she said.

"'Sup," Sam mumbled in reply, looking down at his toes. He seemed mad at her – was he mad at her?

No, he wasn't mad. He was just impatient. He knew what she was here to say already – _I'm sorry, but we can't be friends anymore; Finn just won't let me. _

"Can I come in?" Rachel asked.

A sharp pang hit Sam's chest. Did she really have to ask? Could she not just let him down easily, from a distance? "Sure."

He stepped out of her way and Rachel stepped into the motel room. The place was cleaner than it was when she had last seen it. That was because Sam had spent the last two hours of his impatience throwing away pizza boxes and frozen dinner trays, folding up their sparse clothes and stacking them neatly in the drawer. An anal sense of order was a habit he'd learned from rehab.

"Look, Rachel – whatever you have to say, that you and Finn are getting married no matter what and I can't stop you, just make it quick. I have to pick Stevie and Stacy up from school."

That was a lie, and Rachel knew it: it was three thirty, and the twins got out at three. Wherever they were, Sam undoubtedly knew exactly where it was and who they were with. He would never leave them, his two little joys, in less than magnificent hands.

Rachel took a deep breath, her hands shaking. All of her previous certainty was gone. Whatever inkling of courage she had had buried itself, deep, in her heart, never to be found.

"Sam Evans, I love you."

Sam just blinked. He waited for the part where she said _"Platonically, of course,"_ and let him down gently, but the moment never came.

"As in…?" he asked, facilitating his disappointment.

"As in, I'm _in love _with you. Not just as friends."

"Rach-"Sam started, thinking she must have been beside herself.

Before he could say anything else, to knock her off her high horse, Rachel blurted, "And you might think I'm crazy, but I mean it. I'm in love with my best friend." She laughed nervously. "And….and you were right about Finn. And whatever else you want to hear. I'll say it a thousand times if I have to, to make you believe me. I love you."

"Rachel, are you feeling okay?" he asked, pressing his lips to her forehead to check her temperature the way his mom had taught him before he started babysitting Stevie and Stacy. Warm, but not hot.

He felt her shiver. Sam recoiled and jumped away, his heart racing. It hit him like a pound of bricks: she wasn't kidding. She was sure. She must have thought long and hard about this.

She loved him back. She loved him, too. She loved him.

He'd thought waiting had been torture. But now that she had said those three little words, eight letters, four syllables, the greatest torture of all was wanting to hear her say them again.


End file.
